


tumblr ficlets

by lovelylogans



Category: Sanders Sides, Sanders Sides (Web Series), Thomas Sanders, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders - Freeform, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders - Freeform, Deceit Sanders - Freeform, Dogs, Fight mention, Food, Logic | Logan Sanders - Freeform, M/M, Morality | Patton Sanders - Freeform, Multi, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Past Animal Cruelty, Pride and Prejudice References, Sanders Sides (Video Blogging RPF), Sanders Sides Platonic Week, Thomas Sanders' Sleep, Trans!Roman, blood mention, let me know if anything else needs to be tagged!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-03-30 00:42:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 29,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13938933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelylogans/pseuds/lovelylogans
Summary: a collection of ficlets that i've cross-posted to tumblr





	1. sanders sides platonic week: moxiety

**Author's Note:**

> so, my tumblr is [lovelylogans,](https://lovelylogans.tumblr.com) and i take prompts and post little ficlets over there that i don't post to here. i figured i may as well start cross-posting all of them, so! enjoy!

Patton was always hopping from hobby to hobby.

Some stayed longer than others: cooking, for instance, he had picked up and stuck with when it was apparent none of the other sides were capable of feeding themselves outside of microwavable meals and boxed macaroni. Patton had been trying to learn the ukulele at the same pace as Roman, and it was something fun for them to talk about, for Roman to puff himself up and fall over himself, talking about music theory. Patton could knit socks like nobody’s business, and he’d crocheted Logan a black scarf that Logan wore whenever it got too chilly.

Others were much more fleeting. Logan had to absorb Patton’s attempt at bullet journaling into his own massive notebook collection, and Virgil still had a half-finished cross-stitch of a corgi pillow under his bed, somewhere.

Virgil had mentioned it to Logan, when they were talking about his rapid change in hobbies, something about _the heart is fickle_ , and Logan had aimed him with a disdainful look that just said _“how dare you contribute such symbolistic reasoning,”_ so Virgil didn’t mention it again. Logan’s leading theory was something about how Patton, as emotion, had a surplus of energy, or something along those lines. Virgil hadn’t really been listening. Sometimes, it was best to just let Logan talk for the sake of talking. Privately, Virgil thought that it was something he and Roman shared in common. He’d never told Logan this, for fear of mortally offending him.

When Virgil wandered into the commons one day, on his way to the kitchen to restock his snack hoard, he nearly tripped over where Patton was crouched on the ground.

“Sorry,” he blurted out, and Patton grinned at him, waving at him to come sit.

“No problem, kiddo!”

It was then that Virgil noticed the rainbow array of yarn in front of him. Too thin for knitting or crochet. He said as much to Patton.

“Oh!” Patton said, brightening. “I thought I might try something new.”

Huh. About time. The last hobby Patton had picked up and dropped was whittling, which came to an end abruptly when he sliced his thumb open. That had been months ago. Virgil had nearly had an aneurysm when he walked into the kitchen to Logan lecturing Patton hysterically as held a paper towel tightly against his bleeding thumb.

Virgil leaned against a wall, looking down at where Patton was sitting, criss-cross, in the middle of their living room. “No knives this time,” he checked.

Patton laughed. “The most dangerous part of this is scissors,” he said reassuringly.

“What’s this, exactly?” Virgil asked, glancing at the array of yarn, the book Patton was struggling to balance on one knee.

“Remember when we were kids, and Thomas went to summer camp, and everyone had those neat little bracelets?”

Virgil hummed in agreement. He mostly remembered the fiasco that came when someone rejected the bracelet that Thomas made, but Patton probably just remembered all the fun, pretty patterns.

“So,” he said, lifting the book and gesturing to the yarn, “I thought I might try making a couple, see how it sticks, you know?”

“Sounds good,” Virgil said. “Hope you have fun. I was gonna—“ He jerked his thumb to the kitchen, and Patton grinned.

“Aw, okay. Remember not to spoil your dinner, all right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Virgil said, wandering into the kitchen and immediately raiding the cabinets.

When he walked out, Patton was squinting at the strands of thread he’d taped to the table, glancing back at the book before carefully, slowly, twining them together.

It seemed like the bracelet-making was one for the sticking around list.

Patton would tie together pieces of multicolored yarn and talk with the others as he braided, fingers getting faster and faster with practice, before picking them apart and braiding them together again.

It was really only a matter of time.

Logan got his first. It was a no-nonsense pattern that matched his tie; diagonal stripes in black, purple, and blue, with thin little bits of white strung between. Logan didn’t announce it, and Patton didn’t act any differently, but the bracelet resting on his bare wrist was clear enough.

Then Roman; he, too, didn’t mention it, and it took Virgil a little bit longer to spot it because of his long sleeves. But it was an elaborate pattern that reminded Virgil of the gold detailing on Roman’s costume, in deep, rich shades of red and metallic gold.

The days passed, and the thoughts of _Patton isn’t making you a friendship bracelet because he doesn’t actually **like** you_ were getting louder and louder in his had, especially when he saw a flash of one of the others’ bracelets.

Virgil was deep in the wikipedia page about the Lost Cosmonauts when he heard a knock on his door.

He nudged his headphones off of his ears. “Who is it?”

“Just me, kiddo!” Patton called out. “Is this a good time?”

Virgil closed his laptop, did a cursory straightening of his duvet, and called, “Yeah, come on in.”

Patton nudged open the door, holding two mugs, lifting them with a smile. “I brought cocoa?”

Virgil smiled, and gestured for Patton to sit on the bed, greedily taking his Finding Emo mug as Patton adjusted his grip on his Papa Bear mug.

“Thanks, Patton,” Virgil said into the rim of his mug, and Patton smiled.

“Anytime, buddy. What were you doing?”

“Oh,” Virgil said. “Just, um, reading.”

“Bout what?” Patton asked.

Virgil had to take a moment to remind himself that this was Patton, who would never belittle any of his interests, and said, “There’s this theory that some Soviet cosmonauts died before they got Yuri Gagarin into space—like, they got to space, but the USSR covered it up because they died up there. But it’s all pretty circumstantial,” he added hastily, when Patton started looking sad.

“Oh,” he said, and Virgil only had a moment to notice the mischievous look on his face before Patton said, “So, I guess you could say that some of the people that came up with the theories are… luna-tics?”

Virgil groaned.

“Sometimes they can be pretty astro-nutty,” Patton added on, grinning, and Virgil rolled his eyes, and hid his smile behind his mug.

“If I have to bear all these puns,” Virgil said, “Soviet.”

Patton’s delighted laughter warmed him even better than the cocoa.

They kept talking as they slowly emptied their mugs; they talked about space some more, and Patton would pop in with a pun whenever he thought of one, and Virgil brought up some of the happier conspiracy theories, as odd as that phrase was. Conspiracy theories that reached more into the bizarre, with minimal mentions of death.

Once they’d both drained their cocoa, Virgil collected their mugs to set them down on his desk. When he turned back to his bed, Patton was adjusting something in his hands.

Something purple. Something made of yarn.

Patton lifted it up a little when he saw Virgil staring. “Sorry it took me so long,” he said, sheepish. “I kind of had to adapt the design.”

Virgil reached for it, greedy, but faltered at the last second, fingers twitching.

“Can I help put it on?” Patton asked, gentle, and Virgil nodded, sticking out his right hand.

Patton carefully tied it around his wrist, tight enough that it wouldn’t fall off but not tight enough to cut off any circulation, and Virgil brought his face close, examining the design.

It was purple, with a line of little gray clouds and tiny white strands of lightning. Like his hoodie.

“I love it,” Virgil said, hushed, and looked up at Patton, cradling his wrist to his chest. “Thank you.”

“You know what I like about friendship bracelets?” Patton said, voice warm and gentle and full of all the good things in the world, and Virgil shook his head.

“Because it’s a physical reminder of how much each of you mean to me,” Patton said. “When I’m making it, I get to think about each person, and what they love, and the memories we’ve got together. And whenever you guys look at it, you guys—at least, I hope you do—you guys think about me. And you know that we’re friends. And that means that I’m there for you. And that I love you.”

Virgil wasn’t entirely sure what to say, but maybe the look on his face spoke for him, because Patton just smiled back.

“It’s late, kiddo. You should get some sleep.”

Patton leaned forwards, and pressed his lips against Virgil’s forehead, dry and warm. He leaned over and collected Virgil’s empty mug, and when Patton was at the door, Virgil blurted out, “Patton?”

“Hm?” He said, turning and smiling still.

Virgil fiddled quietly with his bracelet, and said, “I—we—love you too.”

Patton ducked his head, smiling still, and said, “Good night, Virgil.”

“Night, Pat.“


	2. sanders sides platonic week: logince

The last thing Logan wanted to do was put something cold on his face after walking home in under-freezing temperatures. And yet, as he fumbled his grip on his key with his cold-clumsy fingers, that was what he had to do as soon as he got into the apartment.

It seemed foolish, in retrospect, that Logan had thought no one would be awake.

He froze like a deer in headlights when he realized that wasn’t the case.

Roman glanced casually over at the door from the couch, and then back to the TV.

It took him a moment, but his head whipped back around again, jaw dropping as he rose to his feet. Logan’s fingers curled around the doorknob, like he could shut the door and do this over again, this time with no one in the room.

“Who do I have to kill?” Roman demanded.

Logan’s fingers tightened on the doorknob, and he shifted on his feet. Just like that, the building righteous fury on Roman’s face melted into—something else.

“Stop letting the warmth out, Baymax, it’s freezing.”

Logan could argue with that statement, but he did as Roman said anyways, stepping into the apartment and closing the door, locking it behind him.

A hand landed on his shoulder, and Logan _hated_ that he flinched, shoulders jumping up, a quick intake of breath, and just as fast the hand was gone.

“Sorry,” Roman said, voice a hush, and Logan shook his head, turning back around.

“It’s—fine,” he said, and Roman frowned, before carefully reaching forwards to lay his hands on Logan’s bare forearms.

“You’re freezing,” Roman said, and just like that, Roman was wrestling his way out of his sweatshirt, holding it out to Logan. “Here, I’ve got it all warmed up for you.”

Logan sighed, and tugged it on as best he could, avoiding the blood on his face, straightening it out.

“Okay,” Roman said, “kitchen, then, you have to get something cold onto your face. And I’m making the warm beverage of your choice, it wouldn’t do if you came down with hypothermia on my watch.”

Logan tried his best not to fidget and followed after him. He’d wanted the apartment to be quiet, and the foyer and kitchen to be empty, so he could have had some space to untangle his thoughts, and not discuss it until morning. Now he might have to talk about it with Roman, when he still had an edge of adrenaline and terror in his veins that were making his hands shake, just slightly.

But Roman didn’t ask at all. He sat Logan down at the kitchen table, under firm orders to stay still, and handed him a bag of frozen peas from the freezer. Logan let out a small hiss of displeasure when the cold came into contact with his face, again.

Roman started shuffling around the kitchen. He wasn’t humming to himself, which made Logan shift with unease. Roman always hummed to himself, unless he was upset in some way, or in deep thought.

The silence between them stretched, thinning and uncomfortable. 

Roman turned to face him, holding two mugs, and Logan blurted out, “Why aren’t you asking about it?”

Something was building inside of him. An outburst had eased it, but only somewhat.

Roman shrugged, setting one of the mugs in front of Logan, one near him. “I figured if you wanted to talk about it, you would,” Roman said simply, before crossing over to the sink, picking up one of their rags, and soaking it under the water, before tugging over one of the chairs so he could sit in front of Logan. 

“Can I?” He asked, holding up the rag, and Logan nodded, setting aside the peas. He ignored whatever emotions were building up, higher and higher.

Logan tensed up again when Roman inched closer, but Roman’s touch was far more gentle than Logan expected. His eyes were focused on Logan’s face, close enough to direct eye contact it made him a little nervous, even when he rationally knew that Roman was focusing on his injuries.

Roman had moved from wiping up the blood that had flown from his nose and down his chin up to the cut at his brow. It was at that point that whatever had built up inside him snapped with all the quiet ease of a twig.

“It was so _stupid_ ,” Logan burst out, and Roman glanced into his eyes, surprised, before turning his attention back to the task at hand.

“Logan, if there’s one thing you’re not, it’s stupid.”

Logan gritted his teeth. “Just because I am academically inclined, it doesn’t mean I can't—“

“Stop,” Roman said, firm. “Listen, buddy, I’m just not gonna hear you talk about my friend like that. I’m just not.”

Logan blinked. “But I am—“

“Not gonna hear it,” Roman continued, slightly louder. “The only person allowed to insult Logan is me, because he understands that it’s all in good fun and he knows that I have his back, at all times, always.”

Logan was shocked into smiling. Just a little.

Roman drew back and set aside the rag, pushed the mug into Logan’s hands, and collected his own, warming his hands.

“So,” he said, “if you want me to see that line of reasoning, you’re going to have to explain it to me. If you want.”

Logan took a sip of his tea—chamomile—and sighed.

“I was at the bar with a few of the other tutors, you know, from the writing center,” Logan began. “I really mostly went because they were pestering me so much about it. I figured I would just—stay for a little while, and make an excuse to leave early. But I stayed longer than expected, and people started to split up. So I went to the bar, to see if people were ordering more drinks there.”

He paused, and took another sip of his tea, to fortify himself.

“I don’t know how the fight started, actually,” Logan said, and he was relieved to hear the only difference in his voice was just him, slightly quieter. No trembling or breaking or any other such thing that would reveal how shaken he truly was. “I just heard them get louder, and I turned to see them fighting. And—it happened so fast. I know that in—chaotic situations, the stress response causes your senses to become sharper, but I didn’t—feel, that, at all. I didn’t feel like I had the energy of fight or flight, I just felt…” Logan cast about for a specific word, and made a frustrated noise when he couldn’t find one.

“It’s okay,” Roman said, hushed. “Keep going.”

Logan forced himself to take a deep, even breath, to drink a little more tea, before he continued.

“I couldn’t see the bouncer anywhere, and they were getting to the point where it was obvious they were going to harm passerby. I didn’t—I hardly even stopped to _think_ —I just went between them, and—“

Logan had never been punched, not in a serious kind of way, before this evening. He hadn’t been particularly inclined towards roughhousing when he was younger, much more inclined to look down his nose at such people and turn back to the book in his lap. He had steered clear of the rare fights in high school. He had been punched jokingly in the shoulder, and he had attended a self-defense class tagging at Patton’s heels, but that had been the extent of his fighting experience.

It had been foolish to think that he could intercede between two men who had fifty pounds and six inches on him.

“That’s not foolish at all,” Roman said. Logan realized he had just said all of that aloud, and groaned, planting his elbows on his thighs and burying his face into his hands.

“Hey,” Roman said, and tugged lightly at Logan’s forearm until Logan looked at him, narrow-eyed. “It’s not foolish. It’s not _stupid._ It was _brave_ , Logan.”

Logan scoffed, looking away.

“It _was_ ,” Roman insisted. “You saw that people could have been hurt, and you interceded! I know you’re usually about, like, logically standing to the side and analyzing a situation, but sometimes situations like that don’t take a lot of thought. And you were the only one hurt, and of course, that _sucks,_  but you were… really courageous, Logan. You’re a hero.”

Logan scoffed again, looking down into the amber liquid of their mug.

“You’re _my_  hero,” Roman declared. “And I bet the people in the bar thought so too! And—and even if they didn’t! They’re wrong! Because you were brave, and you helped de-escalate a situation, and I—I will _fight_  anyone who says anything bad about you trying to help.”

“You will not.”

“I _will,”_  Roman said. 

“Then we’ll just have to swap positions and I’ll be the one cleaning blood off your face,” Logan said.

“So be it,” Roman said, and Logan actually managed to laugh, because Roman did seriously look as if he was about to go out, stalk down the occupants of the bar, and demand to fight them over their hypothetical thoughts, and Roman smiled, sudden and huge.

“There we go, you’ve smiled,” Roman declared, before setting the bag of peas back onto Logan’s face. “Now, if I hear you talking bad about yourself again, either I’m going to have to call Patton or I’m just going to have to sit on you until you see reason.”

“I… do not see how that would make me see reason at all.”

“You’d be _annoyed_  into seeing reason.” Roman declared. “Now, c’mon, I bet you’re still jittery, so we’re going to sit down and watch the Disney movie of your choice.”

“I don’t watch Disney—“ Logan began, as Roman pulled him to his feet.

“Liar,” Roman said, tugging him towards the couch.

“I thought you said I was courageous and brave?”

“Oh, you _must_  be feeling better, if you’re up to sassing me,” Roman said, parking Logan on the couch. “Go on, pick a Disney movie. You can pick all the holes in the logic you want and I won’t complain, just this once.”

Logan paused. “Really?”

“Well, okay, maybe I’ll complain a _couple_  of times.”

Logan shrugged, and accepted the afghan Roman threw at him. “Acceptable.”

At last, Logan was beginning to feel warm.


	3. sanders sides platonic week: logicality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> subtitled: parent/teacher conference, dads gossip about their kids

There was no such thing as a dull day in the mindscape.

Even during days that seemed relatively relaxed, they still had things to do, arguments to talk out, events to plan. It was difficult to keep any segment of routine, which tended to set Logan’s teeth on edge; he constantly tried to making new ones to see if they would stick, and none of them would. Aspects of each, certainly, but not all of them.

Some pieces of regularity would form all on their own.

Logan opened his eyes at the sound of a mug thunking gently onto the table in front of him; Patton had chosen some kind of tea tonight, it seemed. Logan took a sip, and found the taste pleasant.

“Is this new?”

“Mm,” Patton said, settling down with his own mug. “Chamomile, apple, and lavender. Bit of damania and mugwort too, I think.”

“You’re trying to send me to sleep,” Logan said, only slightly accusatory, wrapping his hands around his mug, and Patton shrugged, not denying it.

This ritual was one of Logan’s favorites.

“You mentioned being a little wound up yesterday night,” Patton said. “I figured anything caffeinated would make it worse.”

Logan sighed. “Correct,” he said, grudgingly. “Probably for the best.”

“Oof, how long was _your_  day?” Patton teased. “You just admitted I was right.”

Logan sighed and took a sip of tea. “Taxing. A lot of effort went in and nothing particularly rewarding occurred.”

“Well, that’s how it goes, sometimes,” Patton said, and, softer, “I’m sorry, Logan.”

“It was a long day for all of us,” Logan said. “Virgil especially.”

Patton sombered, and Logan leaned forwards. “How is he?”

Patton took a sip of tea before he answered, slow, weighing his words. “Better. It’s never a great way to start the day, but I think I helped him turn it around.”

“Do you think anything set it off?”

Patton shrugged. “He talked about a couple things, I suppose. Just... stress buildup, I think. Something that’s been a while coming.”

Logan hummed, partially in distaste. If it was _emotion,_  then truly it would be Patton’s area to help fix things, not Logan. Logan did much better with tangible problems and solutions, whereas Patton was much more adept at the abstract.

“He did seem quieter at dinner,” Logan said. “I thought that might have been... Roman.”

They both paused, sipped at their tea, and Patton said, “So, I noticed you came to dinner together. Did you spend the whole day together, or...?”

“Just after lunch,” Logan sighed. “Most of the morning I was trying to put together another schedule. Roman thought I could provide some input, so he approached me at lunch to ask if we could have a brainstorming session.”

“And how was that?”

Logan sighed, and rubbed at his temples. “Only slightly disheartening. We’ve come up with a couple short video ideas, but nothing for a longer video yet. Roman might still be up in his room working on it, even though I told him to take a break. You might want to check on him on your way to bed.”

Patton nodded, and said, “Virgil might be in need of another debate with you soon.”

“Oh?”

“Something about video performance. I tried talking about peaks and valleys, but I think it comes through better for him when you talk statistics.” 

Yes. Tangible solution. Logan could do that.

“Do you think that whatever set Virgil off might have something to do with Roman?” Logan asked, tracing the rim of his mug with his pinky. “Correlation is not necessarily causation, I know, but it could be worth looking into.”

“Could be,” Patton said, frowning. “I’ll have Roman talk over some ideas with me tomorrow, give you a bit of space to finalize that schedule before you talk to Virgil.”

“That would be much appreciated, yes. Did you have any particular plans tomorrow, outside of talking with Roman?”

Patton shrugged. “Probably talking with Roman and Virgil, you know. Make sure everything’s okay after today. After that... I dunno, we’ll see. Maybe I’ll tag along to the brainstorm session. Or we could make it a group thing?”

“Depends on Virgil’s opinion, but perhaps that’s what Roman needs. My input certainly wasn’t doing much.” Logan said, and scowled down at his tea.

Patton’s hand landed on his wrist, warm and a little rough. “Creativity’s fickle, you know that,” he said. “Even with the aid of more logical thinking. Not every day is productive, and that’s okay. Doesn’t make it a waste of a day.”

“Theory and application,” Logan murmured. “Different areas.”

“I know,” Patton said, and laughed. “Goodness, do I know. But I’ll be here to keep reminding you.”

Logan smiled, and they both paused to take a sip of their tea.

“Oh, um,” Logan said, realizing his oversight. “How, um. How are you? Doing?”

“Well,” Patton said, and sighed. “Still a little worried about Virgil. A little shaken up from Virgil’s outburst. I think... a bit of frustration. From you or Roman. Mostly okay, though. Happy to be talking with you.”

Logan took a breath, and said, “Complex.”

“Emotions usually are, even the happy ones,” Patton said with a small shrug. 

Logan paused, and said carefully, “And I’ll be here to listen to you talk about them.”

Patton smiled, and stood, collecting their empty mugs of tea before dropping a dry kiss on top of Logan’s head. “Try to get to sleep early, all right? And remember to turn on your blue light filter, that might be what’s bugging you. You always forget.”

Logan nodded, and told Patton’s back. “Good night.”

“Good night, Logan.”


	4. sanders sides platonic week: prinxiety

It was no secret that none of them had a reliable sleep schedule.

Virgil notoriously kept his own hours, with the reason of mostly “I will sleep when I am able to sleep.” Logan tried the hardest to stick to a schedule, but even Logan could be stuck in thought loops and fail to relax enough to fall asleep at his appointed time. Patton could and would fall asleep anywhere, slumbering with all the force of a wrecking ball. Virgil had grown into the habit of watching where he stepped when he went for midnight snacks, because he had nearly accidentally stomped on Patton a number of times, after Patton would fall asleep watching something on TV. Roman, of course, lauded the importance of _beauty rest,_  but his realm functioned in all kinds of weird hours, so it was really a gamble at any given moment if Roman was asleep or not.

Virgil walked into the living room, watching carefully for any stray dads that could get underfoot, when he heard a sharp intake of breath. 

His eyes snapped up from the empty ground to scan the rest of the room, and it didn’t take very long for him to detect the noise.

It looked as if Roman had only paused to take off his armor and scabbard before dropping onto the couch to sleep, detritus of dented, scratched metal surrounding the couch, his sword leaning haphazardly against the wall. Virgil froze, thinking he’d woken Roman, but Roman didn’t do anything else, and his eyes were still shut, so Virgil figured that he hadn’t done anything. He continued to the kitchen, stepping lightly.

He emerged with snacks stuffed in his hoodie and a plastic bottle of water in his hands, when he heard a strangled gasp, and he frowned, turning to look at Roman.

Someone (probably Patton) had thrown a blanket on top of him, and Roman’s face was still turned mostly away from Virgil; the tendons in his neck were standing out, and Virgil hesitated, taking a few steps closer.

Roman’s profile was more clear now; Virgil could see a few beads of sweat clinging to his face, and his skin was looking almost as pale as Virgil’s. His brow was creased, and his face shuddering in dismay.

It finally clicked. _Nightmare._

Virgil hesitated, unsure of what to do—leave Roman alone? Make some kind of loud noise? Reach over and shake him?—but then Roman _twisted,_  his face turning more fully to Virgil’s, another gasp strangling itself out of his mouth, and Virgil’s mind was made up.

“Roman,” he said, and then, louder, “ _Roman.”_

Nothing. Virgil hesitated, and said, again, “Roman, wake up—”

A noise that was distressingly close to a whimper.

“Roman, get up,  _now,_  we need you— _Thomas_  needs you—Roman, get UP!” He practically yelled, and Roman’s eyes flew open with a strangled gasp, jerking his way to sitting upright.

Virgil hovered uncertainly as Roman gulped for air, wiping his face off on the blanket. Virgil floundered for words. God, he was so _bad_  at this.

“Are you, um,” Virgil began, and faltered. “Do you... do you want me to get Patton? Or?”

“Water,” Roman croaked, and Virgil scrambled to hand him the water bottle he’d taken from the kitchen, careful not to touch him, just in case. Roman downed about half of it, and came up sucking in air.

“Are, um. You okay?” Virgil said, lamely, and probably deserved the weak glare Roman shot at him. He rephrased, 

“Do you need anything?”

Roman shuddered, and lifted a shoulder up, down, a helpless kind of gesture.

Virgil hesitated, and said, “Do you need me to leave you alone?”

“ _No,”_ Roman blurted out, and immediately looked mortified by how quickly it had come out.

“Okay,” Virgil said, shuffling on his feet. “Is it, um. Is it okay if I sit on the couch next to you?”

Roman nodded, and Virgil perched carefully on the neighboring cushion, and figured his best bet was to emulate Patton in this situation. He softened his voice.

“Do you... do you need a hug?” Virgil said, and tried his hardest not to cringe. Roman, however, leaned immediate and heavy into Virgil’s side, and Virgil withdrew enough to draw an arm over Roman’s shoulders, tugging him in, and roughly rubbing at whatever muscle his hand was touching.

“Okay,” Virgil said carefully. “You’re, um, you’re okay, Princey. Dream’s over. You’re awake.” He squeezed, the way Patton did, and shook him a little, also the way Patton did. “Do you... wanna... talk? God, I’m sorry, I’m shit at this,” Virgil grumbled.

“You’re good,” Roman croaked out. “Can’t, um. Can’t remember it much anyways.”

Virgil paused, and said, “Are you lying to me or can you actually not remember? Because if you don’t wanna talk, that’s okay. But don’t... lie to me.”

He could hear Roman swallow, and Roman said, “Don’t wanna talk.”

“Okay,” Virgil said, quietly grateful, because if he could barely grasp his own psychological fuckenings how was he supposed to handle Roman’s? “Let me know if that changes. If it doesn’t, that’s fine.”

Roman nodded, leaned heavier into Virgil’s side, and after a few seconds of silence that stretched too uncomfortably, Virgil checked, “You sure you don’t need anything else? I can get Patton or Logan, if you want.”

“You’re _good,_  Judge Moody,” Roman said, and then, quieter, “I don’t wanna be a—”

“Do not finish that sentence,” Virgil said. “Self-deprecation is _my_ thing, Princey. If I went upstairs and knocked on either of their doors right now, and if I said to Logan ‘Roman needs you to talk astronomy to him until his ears fall off’ his only complaint would be my use of hyperbole. If I went to get Patton he would bring a legion of stuffed animals. If I woke both of them up and said ‘Roman needs us all to sit where he can see us and watch Cinderella together,’ they would do it. Because we, um. We all care, okay?”

A pause, and then a very soft, “You’re one to talk.”

“Yeah, and I just told you off for stealing my things, so,” Virgil said, and Roman let out a weak chuckle. 

“Seriously, though, do you need anything, anyone else?”

Roman paused, and said, “Could we watch Cinderella? Just the two of us. And, um. Snuggle maybe.”

Virgil’s shoulders relaxed. “Yeah, okay, I can do that,” he said, and glanced around for the remote.

Five minutes later, Roman and Virgil were slumped into each other, sharing a blanket on the couch, Cinderella starting, and Roman still felt a little clammy to the touch, but he started smiling when the princess showed up on the screen, so Virgil figured he’d be just fine.


	5. sanders sides platonic week: analogical

It was unseasonably, unreasonably cold.

This was the thought that plagued Logan as he prepared the kettle of hot chocolate (caffeine would be less than constructive, this late, even thought he and Virgil both enjoyed it) and he scowled at the tray he was preparing.

Patton and Roman had informed Logan and Virgil of their plans to go to Roman’s realm, that evening, so Logan and Virgil would have the commons for the evening. What they were going to do, Logan wasn’t sure. But for whatever reason, the heating had seemingly vanished, and Logan was left wondering where his Christmas sweater had gone.

Logan brought in the tray as Virgil glanced up from where he was sorting DVDs, and Logan set the tray down on the coffee table, about to pour them two mugs when footsteps approached.

“Bye, nerds,” Roman called as he and Patton passed the living room, and Logan scowled as Patton smacked him fondly on the arm before calling out, “Have a fun night in, you two! Don’t wait up!”

They didn’t wait for any goodbyes on Virgil and Logan’s behalf, and Logan and Virgil shared a fondly exasperated glance before Logan handed over Virgil’s mug.

“Why is it so _cold?”_  Logan said, irritable.

“Maybe Patton and Roman are going somewhere warm so Roman’s just adjusted the whole mindscape down a few degrees,” Virgil said with a shrug. “Maybe someone subconsciously wants to be cold. Maybe our world is collapsing and we’ll enter a spontaneous ice age.”

“Incredibly unlikely,” Logan informed him, wrapping his hands around his mug. “The opposite, however...”

Virgil paused, and Logan lowered his mug. “No destruction-of-the-world talk?”

“Not until later,” Virgil decided, and Logan nodded in agreement, eyeing Virgil’s hoodie with the slightest bit of jealousy. 

Virgil put on a playlist of music in the background, something a bit more... _chill,_  than his usual tastes. Both of them situated themselves with their entertainment for the evening (for Virgil, a notebook he guarded with utmost secrecy; for Logan, a memoir that he had been meaning to read for quite a while) and settled on the couch. Virgil at one end, Logan at the other, their bodies and legs parallel to each other. Virgil knocked knees with Logan, and Logan rolled his eyes before he knocked knees back, and buried his nose into his book.

It took twenty-seven minutes for Logan to sigh, admit defeat, and knock his knees with Virgil again.

“Would you let me out? I’m going to get a blanket.”

Without looking up from his notebook, Virgil tucked his knees up to his chest and held up his empty mug; Logan sighed and collected it, as well as his own. 

Blanket balanced on his arm, and two new mugs of cocoa in hand, Logan made his way back to the couch, handing Virgil his mug, setting down his own, and getting situated under the blanket, tucking it around his legs and pulling it up to his chest as he focused on the memoir again.

It took thirteen more minutes for Virgil to knock knees with him again, and Logan glanced up.

“Let me share the blanket,” Virgil said.

“Get your own,” Logan sniffed. “You’re already wearing a hoodie, you have more warmth than I do.”

“Yeah, but isn’t, like, sharing body heat good for getting warm, or whatever?”

“Hmph. While that is true, I doubt that it would help. We’ve been sitting in close quarters and it hasn’t helped either of us particularly much.”

“Wait,” Virgil said, and narrowed his eyes at Logan. “Either of us?”

Logan curled his fingers around his hot chocolate mug, and cleared his throat, “Well,” he said, “it’s not like there’s a thermostat in here. There isn’t much we can do to fix this problem.”

Virgil kicked Logan in the hip. “Defeatist attitude is _my_  thing, Nic-cold-la Tesla.”

Logan’s lip curled. “ _Nic-cold-la.”_

“Okay, I’ve been spending time around Patton, sue me,” Virgil grumbled. “There’s gotta be some way of making this place warm again.”

“Short of storming into Roman’s realm, disrupting _whatever_  he and Patton are doing, and braving the subsequent argument—“

“No, I mean, something _we_  can do. Blankets aren’t really helping, warm drinks are nice but not a permanent solution, body heat isn’t working—“

“Hm,” Logan murmured, marked his place in his memoir and set it aside, before placing his hands together under his chin in thought, before abruptly, a frankly _childish_  idea occurred to him, and he pulled a face reflexively.

“What was that?” Virgil asked. “Idea?”

“A bad one,” Logan scoffed.

“Better than nothing,” Virgil said, and Logan scratched at his neck, wrinkling his nose.

“It’s— _silly.”_

“If it helps get me warmer, I don’t really care.” Virgil said, and kicked Logan’s hip again. “Tell.”

“Well,” Logan began, and huffed out a breath. “We would... require more blankets. And perhaps need to move the furniture around.”

Virgil seemed to catch onto the idea, and he smirked. “A _blanket fort?”_

“I told you it was silly,” Logan said. “I mean—it would provide an enclosed space, and a manner of shelter. If we used heavier blankets, it would provide insulation, and—no. It’s silly. We’ll think of something else—“

Virgil paused, glanced around, and said in an undertone, “I won’t tell the others if you won’t.”

Logan, similarly, glanced around, and looked back at Virgil. “It would, ah. Behoove this exercise. If we were to dress warmly, as well. And comfortably. Perhaps... with certain wardrobe choices we wouldn’t, ah. Normally show. In front of the others.”

Virgil’s lips twitched. “So... we’ll get changed. And bring down the blankets from our rooms.”

“Yes. And perhaps some of the ones from the linen closet.”

“...and maybe some snacks. Just, you know. For energy.”

“Right. Of course. We’ll meet back here with the necessary supplies, then.”

It took fourteen minutes for Logan to descend the stairs, dressed for the occasion, balancing armfuls of blankets, duvets, sheets, and pillows, and to see Virgil, outfitted in a [cat onesie](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/ee/c6/7e/eec67ef6840882135ea572907f222e24.jpg), sorting out a tray full of junk food, a pile of similarly soft and fluffy building supplies beside him.

“So,” Logan said, pulling off _refined_  and _professional_  remarkably well for someone in a baby blue unicorn onesie, “How large do you suppose this fort should be? We should keep in mind that we will be responsible for putting all of this away, after all.”

“Mm,” Virgil said, and frowned. “Well, big enough that we’ve got space if we need it, but small enough that we don’t have to ransack the other’s rooms for _their_  blankets and pillows.”

“Agreed,” Logan said. “The first order of business should be moving the couch and coffee table, so we have more floor surface to work with.”

They decided a variety of things; the floor should be covered in pillows, and those pillows should be covered in blankets. They would use the TV, the sofa, and the coffee table as areas to help lift the blankets up. They prepared another kettle of cocoa to go with their snacks. 

It took approximately forty-eight minutes to assemble it to their satisfaction, and Logan surveyed it, before nodding and dropping to his knees to crawl inside, Virgil following close after. 

“When’s the last time we did this, you think?” Virgil mused. “Built a blanket fort, I mean.”

“Easily years ago,” Logan said, laying down, carefully situating himself so he had enough support for his head. “Not for a while. I can’t recall an exact age.”

“Me either,” Virgil said, relaxing, which seemed oxymoronic. “We did a pretty good job, didn’t we?”

There’s the TV, providing a muted glow over them. The floor is now soft and fluffy. The blankets make the incoming light hazy and multi-colored, dappling them in odd shadows. The whole effect is rather... cozy.

“It seems so, yes,” Logan said.

Virgil reached for a spare blanket, wrapping himself up, and Logan followed suit. 

“Do you wanna watch a movie?” Virgil asked, gesturing to the TV. “Since we’re both here, I mean. Seems like a waste to have it on and not play anything.”

“Sure,” Logan said, setting aside the memoir. “Do you have anything in mind?”

“I thought you could pick from these,” Virgil said, nudging over the DVDs he’d been sorting when Logan walked into the room. _Cosmos_ _, Planet Earth, When We Left Earth, National Geographic: Mysteries of the Past, Curiosity with Stephen Hawking._  Logan paused, and figured that Virgil had selected these movies due to their shared interests, and allowed a small smile to cross his face.

“ _Cosmos,”_  Logan decided, holding up the DVD. “It’s been a while since we watched it last.” Virgil accepted it, and fed it into the player.

Logan poured himself another mug of cocoa, pulled the snacks closer to him and Virgil, and settled in for an evening listening to Neil deGrasse Tyson. Virgil knocked his shoulder against his, and Logan carefully reciprocated, as a means of displaying fond camaraderie.

“The cosmos is all there is, or ever was, or ever will be,” Neil deGrasse Tyson began, and Logan paused, before he leaned his head against Virgil’s shoulder, listening closely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is set the same night as royality's, next chapter!


	6. sanders sides platonic week: royality

Roman knew the best dance partner of the other sides.

Virgil, bless him, would get too frozen up if any of the residents of Roman’s realm watched him in any way, and Logan just would _not_  indulge Roman’s “frivolous fantasies,” but that was all right, because Roman had _Patton._

“Ready, Pat?” Roman asked with a grin, knocking on Patton’s door, and Patton flung open his door, beaming, already dressed to the nines in his own kingly garb.

“Let’s get our boogie on, kiddo!”

Roman twirled his wrist and bowed at the waist before straightening, and Patton held out an imaginary skirt in a curtsy before taking Roman’s arm. 

“Bye, nerds,” Roman called as they passed the living room, where Logan and Virgil were sitting quietly in the living room, pouring something from a steaming kettle, and Patton smacked him fondly on the arm before calling out, “Have a fun night in, you two! Don’t wait up!”

Roman tugged a still-giggling Patton towards his door, and they walked out of the portal right in front of their favorite dancing tavern, already booming with bright, happy music.

As they approached the door, a few standbys bowed their way.

“Prince Roman,” said the bouncer, and smiled at Patton, bowing his head. “King Patton.”

Patton giggled charmingly, as he always did whenever members of Roman’s realm called him the king. “Business is booming tonight, huh?”

“Of course it is,” Roman declared. “You were going to come, of course people showed up.”

As they walked in, Roman saw Patton perk up at the sound of bright, clear jazz, and he nudges Roman happily with his elbow. There are couples already cutting across the floor, practically flying with it.

It felt like Roman and Patton should be in tophats and coats with tails rather than their more royal garb, Patton decked out in blue and white to counteract Roman’s red and white; silver where Roman was gold, kittens and dogs where Roman had his emblem. 

As the song transitioned from one into the other, passerby clapping along, Roman held his hand out to Patton, arching a curious brow.

“Shall we?”

Patton grinned, placing his hand in Roman’s. “We shall.”

Swing was much more Patton’s domain than Roman’s, but Roman wasn’t something to sneeze at; he could keep up with Patton, most of the time. Roman was leading, but that was mostly so Patton would be able embellish more, add in kicks or hops while Roman could help twist him on his way.

Roman did like swing; the way each partner could add in their own touch before melting back into a coordinated move together, feet never still, full of hops and twists and something so wonderfully _quaint_  about all of it. He and Patton had been Lindy-hopping and doing the Charleston together ever since Roman was first entranced by a video of Fred and Ginger as a child, and to his surprise, it had turned out that Patton had taken more onto that style than Roman ever did. 

Patton and Roman had been dancing together for so long that the brief warning squeeze on Roman’s hand was all he needed to know that Patton was about to try some stuntwork, and on their next turn, Roman’s hands on Patton’s waist helped him lift-twist into the next kick, and then it was _on,_  stunts learned on rainy days with couch cushions stacked beneath them. 

Roman’s hands planted on Patton’s shoulders, and Patton’s hands on his thighs helped hoist him so he leapt over Patton’s head, recovering in time for Patton to dip him low and swing him around into the next bit of Lindy.

Patton put his back to Roman’s, and Roman _knew_  this one, ducking and allowing the momentum of it all to flip Patton over his back, grinning as he stood up straight and they headed straight into a partnered Charleston, hop-kicking their way around the room.

“[Jumpin’ Jive](https://youtu.be/_8yGGtVKrD8?t=1m39s)?” Roman called into Patton’s ear as they twirled their way back to the center of the room, and Patton laughed.

“If I can remember it all!”

This had been learned over the course of two weeks, and it had driven Logan absolutely crazy. Firstly, because it involved a lot of tap, which was loud. Secondly, it involved a lot of moving across a variety of rooms, which was disruptive. Thirdly, it involved tapping and jumping on _tables,_  which was both loud _and_  disruptive.

The choreography wasn’t an exact copy, of course; neither of them could do the jump-splits, or regular splits for that matter, and some of the tap footwork had been to intricate so they had improvised new steps to go in its place. 

Either way, the routine was exhausting, and intricate, and it had been a while since either of them practiced, so it perhaps wasn’t as perfect as it could have been. But the fact that Roman nearly rolled his ankle and Patton had stopped to laugh at himself whenever he forgot a move didn’t seem to matter to the people surrounding them; when the song came to an end, the tavern’s occupants burst out into cheers and applause.

Patton laughed, tugging Roman in for a quick side-hug, squeezing him tight around the shoulders before letting him go so he could fan himself.

“Shucks, kiddo, it’s been too long since we’ve done that!” Patton exclaimed, beaming. “Wanna grab a drink before we head back out?”

Roman, who was also breathing a bit heavier than he would have liked, nodded in agreement, twining his hand in Patton’s so he wouldn’t get lost in the crowd.

“Water,” Roman mouthed at the bartender, who nodded at them, finishing up her orders before sliding two glasses already sweating with condensation down the bar, towards them. Patton’s was distinguishable by the silly straw.

They were midway through their glasses when the band started swapping instruments, and Roman felt himself perk up, because—

“Salsa,” Roman said, vaguely worshipful, and Patton grinned.

“Need a partner?”

“Always with you, Pat,” Roman said, and Patton offered his hand to grandly lead Roman to the center of the floor.

The musicians got ready. Roman grinned at Patton, who was grinning back. [They got into position.](https://youtu.be/aHDKkmC7A8w?t=1m15s)

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

Patton led when it came to salsa, also so Roman could embellish as he liked. Salsa was all about _passion_  and _energy_ , and Roman _loved_  it, the bright brassy beat, the dramatic, smooth choreography, the style and flair. There was choreography, of course, but you could so easily add in moves as your inspiration took you flying. 

Swing was quick, sure, but salsa just _moved_  in a way that swing didn’t; salsa brought the best kind of adrenaline rush, full of laughter and complex moves and that wild, inescapable energy. It made him feel _alive_  in the best kind of way, like the music, the performance, all of it, was just for him.

And, of course, for Patton.

Patton was a great partner, in all genres, but especially in salsa. Whatever bright, happy zest for life that he usually had came shining through whenever he danced; like he was just happy to be near the music, like the music was moving _him,_  and he was happy for it to happen. With salsa, it turned into something a little showoffish, for Patton, a little bit less family-friendly and a little more daring. 

Patton knew how to turn his hands to spin Roman so Roman wouldn’t hurt his wrists. Patton knew when to jerk his head to the side if Roman decided to go to a kick. Patton knew the exact placement of hand-on-wrist and arm-on-chest if Roman went to the ground. 

Swing may have been Patton’s area, but Patton could certainly salsa his way in and out of a crisis, if necessary.

The song ended, and Roman glanced back at Patton, who was starting to fan himself again. 

“More water,” Roman declared, and they marched back to the bar. This time, Roman got a silly straw too.

Admittedly, less salsa than Roman would have liked, but by the time they were finished with their drinks _everyone_  was slipping out onto the floor, and Roman couldn’t help but grin as the[ strings started up, simple yet lively, and the other instruments rushing to join in.](https://youtu.be/chppF5jqKNw?t=1m41s)

Of course it would be this song.

Patton got pulled off to one side, and Roman laughed before he was twirled away by the bouncer, the few bystanders clapping along to the beat. 

The dance was a raucous, joyous affair; no one cared about footwork all that much, and there was the clashingly familiar way that everyone added their own embellishments, the occasional offbeat clap, the great shout of laughter if someone tripped over themselves, but always going to help them out. 

Roman swung arm-in-arm with an ever-rotating group of his subjects, beaming the whole way, hopping and jumping and skipping together, the room a great wheel of motion and movement. At one point, they split to form two lines, everyone clapping as duos from one end paraded down the other, dancing, holding hands.

Roman was hardly even surprised when Patton fell into step with him again at the end of the song, the dance silly and bright. They spun in circles and got dizzy, they leapt when the rest of the room leapt, they jumped and let their hair flop into their faces, sweaty and gross, royal outfits more and more disheveled.

The room cheered as the song ended, Roman pulled Patton in roughly for a hug, laughing and shoving him off when Patton mussed at his hair, before taking his hand again and twirling him again, stepping back into the fray, ready to dance the rest of the night away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one, amazingly, has art from the person who helped inspire the whole story! check out sanderstribute's adorable art [here!](https://lovelylogans.tumblr.com/post/170508478031/sanders-sides-platonic-week-royality) i'm still crying about it.


	7. sanders sides platonic week: lamp/calm

This was a tradition none of them missed out on if they could help it, now that it was practically honed into an art.

Patton would bake and cook; cookies, brownies, popcorn, homemade dips,  finger foods and appetizers. Roman would gather up blankets, pillows, and arrange the couch to his comfy satisfaction. Logan was in charge of movie organization, which ranged from rational (alphabetical order, genre) to the nonsensical (movies in which the lead man had a mustache, movies in which two actors overlapped). Virgil mostly handled afterwards, the cleanup, because the other sides fell asleep much easier than he did. 

No one was in charge of monitoring the peace, because _movie night_  and _peaceful_  were direct opposites.

They traded off on who picked the movie each week; Roman would unerringly pick Disney or a musical, Patton tended to go for happy movies or comedy, Logan tended more towards documentaries and true-life, and Virgil was a bit of a wild card. 

Roman was carefully adjusting the fairy lights strung around the ceiling to give the room a hazy look, and to provide light to anyone who needed to take a bathroom break or head to the kitchen. Logan was straightening a stack of DVDs, and Virgil was helping Patton place the food on the coffee table. 

“Whose turn is it this week?” Patton asked, carefully setting down a glass pan full of buffalo chicken dip, as Virgil straightened a bowl of chips beside it. “I picked last week, didn’t I?”

“No, that was the week before,” Roman said, tilting his head back and forth to survey the lights before climbing down from a stepladder. “Last week was Logan, wasn’t it? We rewatched Planet Earth and you were upset because—“

Virgil and Logan shot a warning glare at Roman before he could bring up a cuddly baby animal death, who cleared his throat and said, “Anyways, it’s _my_  turn—”

“ _Uh,”_ Virgil cut in loudly, “Don’t even _try_  to steal my week, Aladdin wannabe, it’s _my_  turn.”

“Virgil is correct,” Logan said, as Patton had vanished to the kitchen, so it fell to him to be the mediator. “Your week is next week, Roman.”

“But you’re going to pick something _boring,”_  Roman complained, and Logan said, “It’s _Virgil’s_  week, so _Virgil_  gets to pick what he wants to watch. Those were the terms. No switching weeks unless previously agreed upon by both parties.”

Roman huffed out a long, dramatic, “ _Fiiine,”_ and draped himself on the couch, twirling his wrist to place dramatically over his forehead. “Pick what you _will,_  Judge Moody, I suppose I’ll have to _suffer—_ ”

“Brownies are ready,” Patton said brightly, emerging from the kitchen, carefully cradling the pan in oven-mitt-enclosed hands.

“ _Ooh,”_  Roman said, melodrama forgotten, sitting up. “Are they—?”

“Symphony brownies, yep,” Patton said, smiling.

The other sides joined in the “ _ooh”_ chorus, crowding in on Patton, who fended them off the best he could with his elbows.

“They have to _cool_  first,” Patton said. “The buffalo chicken dip’s cooled, though, you should make a dent in that first.”

The other three sides did as directed, which wasn’t exactly a chore, scooping the dip into bowls and gathering up handfuls of chips. Patton situated the brownies, carefully setting them on the oven mitts to protect the table, completing the spread.

“So,” Patton said, carefully spooning the dip into his own bowl, “What d’you think you’re gonna pick, Virgil?”

Virgil placed his hand over his mouth, as he’d just crunched down on a chip, and held up a finger, flushing a little at the sudden attention. He shrugged as he chewed, swallowed, and said, “Dunno. Haven’t thought about it.”

“Take your time,” Logan said, and nodded to the DVD stacks. Virgil got to his feet, carefully reading titles as Logan, Patton, and Roman started to get the couch situated, slow, as they were still munching away at their chips and dip. 

Virgil saw the title, and pressed his lips together before carefully wiggling it loose, examining it, and nodding decisively. 

Perfect.

“You picked something, Virge?” Patton asked cheerfully, likely through a mouthful of chips by the sound of it.

“Mhm,” Virgil said, turning the case over in his hands and popping out the DVD. “Everyone got everything they need?”

“Drinks,” Logan realized. “We need drinks. What does everyone want?”

There was a brief break in conversation as Roman and Patton went to the kitchen to get all the drinks, deposited into color-coded glasses (purple for Virgil, blue for Patton, red for Roman, black for Logan) and settled in the likely configurations of how everyone would sit. Virgil knelt and loaded the DVD into the player, before slouching over to the couch and taking his place between Logan and Patton, Roman on Patton’s other side. 

Logan was the first one to piece it together, likely from the previews and his familiarity with the DVD setup. He turned to Virgil, pained betrayal painted on his face.

“ _No_ ,” he said. “Please no.”

Virgil, snickering, settled back into the couch cushions with his cup of sprite. “What happened to to me picking what I want to watch?”

“What?” Roman said, suspicious, squinting over Patton’s head as Logan groaned. “What is it? What?”

Virgil smirked, and said, “You’ll see.”

Logan, sulking, reached for a cookie and curled up under a blanket.

The play menu loaded, and Roman started _cackling,_  louder and louder, arm flung over his eyes, and Patton hid his grin in his cup of water. 

“Interesting choice, kiddo,” Patton said, avoiding Logan’s glower as he pressed play.

“This movie holds _no scientific reasoning,”_  Logan complained. “It’s _nonsensical._ It _could not_ happen. _”_

“It’s _hilarious,_ Captain Calculator,” Roman said, grinning. “I approve of this choice, Sailor Gloom.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was looking for, your approval,” Virgil said, reaching across Patton to poke Roman in the stomach, and Roman reached to poke back, and Patton said “hands to _yourselves,_  you two,” in his best Dad Voice.

It barely even took thirty seconds into the movie before Logan’s first outburst.

“There is no way _that_ manysharks would  _swim_ into a hurricane like that, _”_  Logan burst out, and Virgil tried his best to smother his snorting into his glass. “What kind of _storm_  allows a shark to _fly_?! Much less _into someone to eat them whole—”_

 _“Sharknado_  is a beautiful cinematic masterpiece,” Roman announced. “It’s _supposed_  to be bad, that’s the whole endearing quality of it—“

“You did this for the chaos, didn’t you,” Patton said, and Virgil murmured, “More food for us if they’re busy arguing.”

“Mm. Good point,” Patton said, bumping his hip with Virgil’s, grinning and leaning forwards to steal the rest of the buffalo chicken dip dish, settling it carefully onto his lap.

“Be fair, Logan,” Virgil said, grinning, “I could have picked, like, _Sharkbotasaur vs. Octomegaduck_  or something.”

Logan made a pained noise that would not have sounded out of place in a hospital.

“An octopus duck sounds kinda neat, though,” Patton said, musingly. “Would it have eight wings or eight little waddly legs? Or would it have tentacles plus wings and legs?”

“Four legs, four wings,” Roman suggested. “With fangs in the beak. Sixty feet tall.”

“I feel like we’re missing out on thinking about _sharkbotasaur,”_  Virgil said. “That’s a shark robot dinosaur. Which would win?”

“Sharkbotasaur,” Roman said, at the same time Patton said, “Octomegaduck.”

“I cannot believe you have started them down this path of hypothetical amalgamations of ridiculous animals,” Logan said. “I cannot _believe_  you are making me watch _Sharknado.”_

“I could have gone straight into the sequels,” Virgil pointed out. “They’re up to _Sharknado 5,_  now, Logan.”

“We truly live in an uncaring meaningless society full of backwards and contradictory rules in which our only motivations are monetary greed and shock factor,” Logan said tonelessly, as Roman said, “A _robot shark dinosaur,_ Patton. That’s _way_  more badass than some fanged sixty-foot duck.”

“Language!”

“Fine, bad _butt._ Logan, back me up here—“

“Under no circumstances am I thinking about the mechanics of a _robot shark dinosaur_  fighting against an _octopus duck,”_ Logan said. “There is a _line,_ and that is where I am drawing it.”

“Wait, the movie’s actually getting into it now, hush, we don’t want to miss the first shark attack,” Roman said.

“The movie has already shown a shark attack, Roman,” Logan groaned.

“Yeah, but this is the first one with _horrible fake blood,”_  Roman said excitedly.

Indeed, a surge of very fake blood popped up as the surfer was eaten, and Logan exhaled an audible sigh as the shark attack continued. Virgil snagged a slice of quesadilla, and nudged Patton. “You good?”

“It’s so fake, the blood’s not giving me problems like it usually does,” Patton mused, before licking some stray dip off of his thumb. “Maybe we should just watch really fake movies from now on.”

“I _refuse,”_  Logan declared loudly. “If I have to go _poking holes_  in moves like—like _Arachnoquake_ or _Bearvalanche_ —“

The other three sides broke into snickers, and Roman shouted, “Shush, shush, look, we’re about to get sharks on a waverunner!”

“Sharks—sharks wouldn’t attack someone on a _waverunner—”_  

“Enjoy the hilarity, Lo,” Patton advised. “This isn’t going to be the most absurd thing about this movie.”

“Shark movies have been noted to provide negative public view towards sharks,” Logan grumbled. “Sharks are often unfairly persecuted—“

On screen, an actor attempted to wail convincingly enough to make the audience overlook the terrible CGI of his bitten-off leg.

“Motion for Logan to have a bowl of popcorn on his own so he can throw it at the movie screen and won’t drain the local supply,” Virgil offered.

“Sustained,” Roman said. 

“I wouldn’t—“

“Aw, Logan, you would,” Patton said, reassuringly, already handing over a bowl. 

“Yeah, man, you started throwing things at the screen during _Air Buddies,”_ Roman pointed out.

“That movie is _also_ nonsensical,” Logan grumbled, accepting the bowl. “Honestly, the concept of talking puppies, let alone talking puppies that can play _sports,_ though saccharine _,_ is—“

“It’s a beautiful movie about the power of friendship and family, even through conflict like distance and danger,” Patton said defensively. 

“Okay, but the real question is which Air Buddy is everyone here?” Roman mused. “Clearly, I would be B-Dawg.”

They devolved into a conversation in which they decided which Buddy each of the sides were, in which time on screen the main character had closed up his bar and were starting to attempt to escape the increasing number of sharks dropping onto land, along with the ferris wheel that came loose in the storm.

“ _Why are there sharks in the street,”_  Logan groaned. 

“They moved in with the hurricane, I guess,” Virgil said. “It’s probably best to not try to apply logic to this movie.”

Logan gave Virgil a dead-eyed stare, and gestured to his face as a whole.

“Yeah, sorry,” Virgil said, not sounding particularly sorry.

The first popcorn throw of the movie, unsurprisingly by Logan, was as a shark flew through the window and ate the main character’s ex-wife’s boyfriend, killing him instantly.

“Vore. Kinky,” Virgil muttered, under his breath, and got a handful of popcorn dumped over his head for his trouble.

Every side booed the screen when the main character quipped, “Guess it’s that time of the month.”

Now that the first popcorn had been thrown, all bets were off. Logan started looking more and more apoplectic with rage, directly correlated to how increasingly delighted Roman looked. Patton and Virgil scooped their snacks of choice, and settled in for the long haul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> symphony brownies, mentioned earlier, are a bit of a family recipe. make a batch of brownie mix from the box, pour in half, stick in about three/however many your pan can handle of [these bad boys](https://www.hersheys.com/en_us/products/symphony-milk-chocolate-with-almonds-and-toffee-bars-1.5-ounce-bars.html) cover with the rest of the brownie batter, bake and enjoy!


	8. outtake: prinxiety

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was the original piece for platonic week, but i ended up writing something else. i decided to post this one too.

It was no secret that none of them had a reliable sleep schedule.

Logan probably tried the hardest out of all of them, and Patton could fall asleep and _stay_  asleep just about anywhere; Virgil has nearly stepped on Patton in the dead of night a number of times because Patton fell asleep watching something while sitting on the floor. 

But Virgil, because the debilitating anxiety that embodied who he was, of course, could only snatch sleep in fits and starts. Because why stop at just anxiety, right? Throw in a ton of other stuff too. Virgil’s bitter enough to make a lemon wince, sometimes.

It’s one of those nights where he just _knew_  he wouldn’t be able to sleep, so he figured he’d stave off the frustration that came from lying sleepless in his bed, and started up a Netflix marathon. 

At around 3 AM, his stomach started grumbling, and he sighed. Might as well not pass up on his appetite when it showed up (again. bitter. _horseradish._ ) and get something to eat.

On his phone, he didn’t look up when he flicked on the light, but the girlish, ridiculous shriek that sounded made him jump back, heart pounding.

“Virgil!” Roman squeaked, and Virgil blinked, looking him up and down.

He must have made some kind of face, because Roman straightened himself up, and sniffed. “They’re _pajamas,_  Finding Emo.”

“It seems more like I’m your fashion icon,” Virgil mused, leaning against a counter and surveying Roman, who was outfitted in a hoodie and sweatpants, hair untidy and ridiculous. Granted, the hoodie had a crown on it and declared him to be the prince, without a stitch in sight, but still. 

Roman sniffed again, turning to the fridge with a frown. “If you’re looking for snacks, just know that we got cleared out earlier in the day. Probably Patton.”

Virgil groaned, shouldering his way forwards to look in the fridge, which only held the bare essentials; eggs, butter, milk, syrup, and condiments.

“We don’t even have, like. Boxed macaroni?” Virgil groused.

Roman paused, and adopted his best “dad” stance. “Now, kiddo, you know that those things aren’t good for you to eat all the time!” he said, in an impressive impression. 

Virgil sighed, and opened up the freezer, which was similarly bereft. “Can’t you just, like. Conjure something?”

Roman hummed. “I was thinking of making something, actually.”

Virgil was silent. Roman glanced at him. “What?”

“No, it’s just, I think I know why I couldn’t sleep. It’s the self-preservation that knew it needed me to keep you from burning the kitchen down.”

Roman shoved at his shoulder, and said, “If you keep talking like that, you are getting _none_  of my flippin’ _sweet_  pancakes.”

“Patton, is that you,” Virgil grumbled, before sighing. “Yeah, okay, it’s not like we’ve got anything else, I guess.”

Virgil paused, and said, “Pancakes?”

“We’ve got the ingredients, I think,” Roman said. “Plus, I mean. Sugar’s just the best choice at 3 AM, isn’t it?”

Virgil eyed him, before he reached over and grabbed the eggs, because as much as he didn’t want to put actual effort into his food, the fear of leaving Roman in a quest for sugar, alone, in the dead of night, was much scarier.

After a brief break to look up a recipe on Roman’s phone, Roman situated himself with the bowl of mix, in front of the stove, as Virgil sat on a nearby counter, scrolling through his phone. Because if he couldn’t fuck with Roman, what was even the appeal of life anymore?

Roman paused, and narrowed his eyes at the sound of the [chipper tone.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K5tVbVu9Mkg) “I know this song, don’t I?”

“Mm,” Virgil agreed, biting the insides of his cheeks. “Lazy Town. Seemed fitting, since, you know. Cooking cakes. _Pan_ cakes.”

Roman turned back to the pancake, murmuring along in the way he did whenever he knew a song but not well enough to sing it word for word, and even chimed in on, “If you do the cooking by the book, then you’ll have a—”

“BREAK IT DOWN BITCH, LEMME SEE YOU BACK IT UP,” Virgil yelled along, and any embarrassment of trying to rap was absolutely worth it to see whatever soft wholesome light that was building in Roman’s eyes just crash, burning, to the ground.

Or, at least, that was what he expected.

He did _not_  expect for Roman to immediately drop and roll his body, smirking the whole way, before turning to shimmy, spatula twirling.

There were three things that Virgil could think of. One, that Roman was a better dancer than any of them combined. Two, Roman had _choreographed a dance_  to a _meme song._ Three, he had choreographed, practiced, and _remembered_  the choreography he made to a _meme song._

When the song kicked into the next one, Roman shuffled back over to the stove like nothing happened at all, poking cautiously at the pancake with his spatula.

“I think this one’s ready to flip?” Roman said. 

Virgil blinked a fair few times, and Roman carefully flipped it, frowning at it. 

“Bit pale,” he critiqued, then grinned at where Virgil was still gaping. “Guess it’s in good company.”

“Fuck off,” Virgil said, but it was ruined by the slight tone of wonderment in his voice, then, “You _choreographed_  Lil Jon?”

Roman tsked. “Oh, Robbie Rotten,” he said, “I choreograph _everything._  Not quite as well as that one all the time, granted, but what else do you think I do when Thomas gets a song stuck in his head?”

“Was that an actual fucking Lazy Town reference,” Virgil said. “You watched enough Lazy Town to know the dude’s _name?”_

“My choreography to _We Are Number One_  is admittedly lacking, but it is an ongoing project, I will have you know,” Roman said, carefully distributing the pancake onto a plate and spooning out another puddle of batter.

Virgil was about to ask, when the [next video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o0u4M6vppCI) on the playlist loaded, and Roman narrowed his eyes at it.

“Did you just… put a meme playlist on?”

“What? No,” Virgil scoffed. “I just wanted to fuck with you a little with the whole Cooking by the Book thing.”

“This is a fantastic video, though,” Roman said, and sang, “ _My God, there’s blood everywhere!”_

“Just your amount of drama, yeah,” Virgil said, squinting, and, yep, it was the version of the song he thought it was. 

“ _Lurking in the shadows—_ hey, Virgil, I didn’t know you were in this song.”

Virgil leaned over so he could kick Roman, who snickered, jolting out of the way just in time. 

Roman sang along, loud and with all the dramatic vibrato the song deserved, and Virgil even muttered along with the “ _quiet, quiet,”_  rolling his eyes when Roman brightened up at it.

“What, the video’s a masterpiece,” Virgil grumbled.

“It’s all right, Shia, there’s a certain amount of secrecy that comes with making pancakes together at three in the morning. I won’t tell the others you sang if you don’t tell them about, well.” Roman gestured vaguely to his appearance.

“You copycatting me? Fine,” Virgil said, and added, “Don’t expect me to sing, though.”

“Mhm,” Roman said, and joined in with the next line as Virgil absentmindedly bounced his leg to the beat.

They even shouted, “ _WAIT! HE ISN’T DEAD! SHIA SURPRISE!_ ” together, as Roman belted, “ _THERE’S A GUN TO YOUR HEAD, AND DEATH IN HIS EYES!”_  and Virgil covered his snort of laugh with his hand.

“Can you imagine putting together a video with this level of production value?” Virgil asked, after the song wound down. 

“The ultimate goal,” Roman said solemnly. “To make a video as extra as that.”

Virgil had a temporary, vivid mental picture of Patton attempting to do aerial aerobics and falling, Logan wearing one of the masks, and Roman dramatically serenading Shia LaBeouf.

The next video loaded before Virgil had to disclose this horrible vision of the future. 

It turned out to be a vine compilation, and Roman flipped three pancakes onto the plate as they pulled faces and did their best impressions at each other (”what the FUCK is up, Kyle?!” Virgil demanded to Roman’s hysteric giggles) and it was actually… _fun._

Roman was easily the most varied of Virgil’s relationships with the others, the pair of them still a little unsettled and cautious around each other, still treading on occasional soft spots and going at each other too much. Of course, the growing suspicion of _I’ll fuck this up_  was growing in Virgil’s head, but he ignored it, too busy snickering at Roman declaring, “Look at all those _chickens,”_  gesturing expansively with the spatula.

The [next video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J1c2KzJbcGA) loaded, and Virgil said, “Oh, _wow,_  I can’t believe I forgot about this.”

Roman’s lips twitched. “It is, ah. A rather unique aesthetic, isn’t it?”

“It’s a song about pants, Roman.” Virgil paused, and glanced at Roman. “Actually, you wouldn’t be entirely out of place in that video.”

Roman gasped at Virgil, and said, “Just for that, I’m burning your pancakes.”

“You’re making the last one and you have no idea of which one is going to us,” Virgil smirked, propping his elbow on his knee, settling his chin on his hand. “You wouldn’t risk a one in six chance of burnt pancake, would you?”

Virgil paused, and looked at Roman, eyes narrowed. Roman turned his attention to the skillet.

“You… do you have choreography for this one?” Virgil asked, pressing his lips together to keep from laughing at him.

Roman paused, and managed to flip the pancake. “All right,” he said. “I’ll show you the choreography. _If_  you sing along.”

“What?” Virgil scoffed. “No way.”

“We’re under oaths of secrecy,” Roman said, and sang out, “ _Is that an angel baby, no, that’s his dance moves!_ ”

Except it wasn’t Roman’s usual professional singing. It was _awful._  It was the shrieking singing he did whenever someone needed to laugh, and Virgil looked away, before hopping down from the counter, jabbing his finger into Roman’s face.

“ _No telling.”_

 _“_ Never _,”_  Roman called back, grinning, and sang, “ _Watch out for my body rolls, watch out for my body rolls!”_

Virgil rolled his eyes, and sang. For him, it was more following along with Roman, awkwardly bobbing, as Roman went all-out, dramatic, pulling faces and shimmying and jumping, wild and crazed with it. It was honestly dancing that would not have looked out of place on Patton, or on any particularly horrible dancing parental figure. 

And it was the funniest thing Virgil had seen that week.

Virgil, snorting, danced along, and joined in at full volume, “ _I’M A DANCE FLOOR TIGER-LADY, PUMPIN’ EVERYTHING SHE HAS, TOUCHIN’ EVERY SINGLE LAD—”_

Roman fell over himself, cackling, but jumped along with Virgil anyways, acting like he was a kid, head tossing and arms waving frenetically, whereas Virgil was stuck nodding along, singing in the same awful, horrible way Roman was.

It was an interesting kind of catharsis—releasing some of the pent-up nervous energy Virgil had with him, always, in a way that felt wild and free and happy. Virgil was all too aware that he probably sounded ridiculous, but it was okay, because Roman absolutely did too, and he was too busy singing about _tight pants_ to really care about how he looked.

Almost too soon, the song was over, and Roman snorted, handed over the plate of pancakes.

“Sugar can only help fuel this session of _song_ ,” he said, solemn, and Virgil rolled his eyes, but he was grinning too hard to pretend like he meant it meanly.


	9. a supportive hype crew is dad culture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i made a post, [here,](https://lovelylogans.tumblr.com/post/169862407181/ok-but-you-know-how-in-his-super-early-vines) about patton still being able to summon up his hype crew, wrote a bit of fic about it, and hit a block until virgilsjourney provided [this post](https://lovelylogans.tumblr.com/post/171060838751/broadwaytheanimatedseries-virgilsjourney-now) that gave me the fuel needed to finish it.

If Logan could go back in time to any moment, it would be the precise moment before Patton realized he could summon his... _hype crew._

Just so he would be able to stop it. Because now—

“First of all, I’m not a rapper,” Patton declared, popping his collar as his hype crew _ooh_ ed around him.

“Here we are,” Roman declared, and Logan glared at him, because somehow this was his fault. Logan just hadn’t figured out exactly how yet. “Our challenger today is the one and only Nerdi B, the dork himself, _Logan.”_

Virgil applauded obligingly from where he was standing in the stairwell. Patton’s hype crew scoffed, bumping his shoulders, Patton ducking his hoodied head and grinning.

“And now,” Roman declared, “The main man himself, no need for introduction, it’s— _MORA- **LIT** -YYYYYYYYYYYY!!!”_

The hype crew started screaming, fanning Patton with his hands and clanking against the blinds as they leapt up and down. Patton giggled, waving them down. “Aw, shucks, you guys, stop,” Patton said, grinning. There was bass music coming from somewhere. _Where was the music coming from._  

“Patton,” Logan said, only a little despairing, “this is ridiculous, I just asked if—“

“Okay, you know how we start it off, coin toss,” Roman declared, making an ornate golden coin out of thin air, hand twisting. 

“Heads,” Patton said, and Logan smirked when it came down on tails.

“Ha! Tails.”

“Hey, hey, hey, I go first,” Patton said.

“Wait, but—“ Logan said, pointing to the coin, which Roman abruptly vanished.

“When it comes to Patton, he goes first,” Roman said. “Those are just the rules.”

“Then _why have the coin toss_ ,” Logan demanded, but it went unheard.

“Check it out, check it out,” Patton said, beaming, and someone in the crew hummed in anticipation, the others quieting down so they could properly hear him. “I broke up with my ex-boy,” he said, solemn, and handed Logan a piece of paper. Logan frowned, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“Patton, I would have the number of any ex we’d have, we’re part of the same—“ Logan began, unfolding the paper with a sigh.

“SIKE!” Patton bellowed, slapping the paper out of Logan’s hand. “THAT’S THE WRONG NUMBER!”

Logan very, very calmly closed his eyes and enacted a deep breathing exercise as the hype crew started screaming, lest he begin screaming much louder.

“It’ll be over soon,” Virgil said in an undertone, barely audible over the shouting and hollering. “Uh, however, I _am_  Team Patton in this, so—“

Logan considered the benefits and drawbacks of ducking out for approximately a week’s worth of time, or perhaps just for forever.

“All right, guys, calm it down, calm it down,” Roman chuckled, and they did as Roman said, still clapping at Patton’s shoulders and muttering under their breaths. “Spit it, Patton.”

Patton cleared his throat again, readying his stance. “Cookies,” Patton began. “I eat that.”

“Mhm, mhm,” the crowd (and Roman and Virgil) chorused, a few pretending like they were crunching down on cookies.

“Super hot fire,” Patton continued. “I _spit_  that.”

“ _Oooh,”_ the group sang out, and Logan said, “Patton, that is clearly nonsensical—“

“Metaphor,” Virgil said, sotto voce, from where he had been folded in amongst the more punk-looking members of the hype crew.

“Winnie the Pooh,” Patton continued. “I _watch_  that.”

He then proceeded to do a trust fall back into Virgil’s arms as the hype crew started enacting their usual tomfoolery around him, and Logan pinched at the bridge of his nose.

 _This will all be over soon. It will all be over soon,_  he reminded himself.

“It’s a heartwarming show full of important life lessons,” one of the hype crew declared, a man that towered over the rest of the crew, outfitted in a leather jacket with spikes on the shoulder. The man sniffed, and pointed at Patton. “My man.”

“My man,” Patton agreed, going in for some unnecessarily elaborate handshake that took approximately fifteen seconds. “All right, all right, all right, here we go,” he announced. “I’m about to end Logan’s whole rapping career—”

“Neither of us— _neither of us have careers as rappers—”_

“Glasses, hoodie, shirt,” Patton enunciated, pointing to each article of clothing. “Call me glasses hoodie shirt man.”

“CALL him that!” hollered the man who had gotten passionate over Winnie the Pooh.

“Or call me super hot boy, hundred degrees, cuz I’m super hot, _boiiiiii—”_

The hype crew began fanning at Patton with their hats, their jackets, their hands, and Logan pinched at the bridge of his nose. Objectively, this was a small slice of his lifespan. Comparatively, it felt as if Logan had been rap battling for Patton for a length of time approximately equal to Odysseus’ journey in _The Odyssey,_ with just as many trials. 

“Let’s hear what Logan’s got to say.”

Logan opened his mouth, about to start his response, but then a shitty beat began to play as the room darkened. Logan blinked, closing his mouth.

“Patton, if this is some kind of distraction tactic—“

“ _Yo,”_[declared a voice, ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wgsYH21Gh0Y)and everyone present turned to the couch, where Deceit was crouched in a pose that Logan was assuming was trying to make him look cool. It involved crouching and hands pressed together as if in prayer. He had swapped out the bowler hat for a backwards black baseball cap. “ _Yo.”_

“What,” Virgil said, very flatly, as everyone was fixated in the sight in front of them, Deceit bopping absentmindedly to his horrible, horrible beat.

“Yo, I’m King Snake, I’m the king of the lair, and now that you’re in here, you aren’t going anywhere—“

“This is the worst thing to ever happen to me,” Roman said faintly.

“—but _down,_  on the _ground_ , cuz I’m gonna kick your ass! I’m sorry I said ass, I don’t mean to be crass—“

“Did he just,” Logan said, belatedly, unsure if he wanted to explode from impatience, second-hand embarrassment, or just from sheer suffering from the truly horrible rap.

“When I’m not busy killin’ like a villain, I write raps—“

Patton cleared his throat, popped his collar, and stepped forwards.

“Boom bam bop,” Patton declared, with a level solemnity that Logan had never seen from him. Deceit faltered, but continued his horrible rhymes. 

“Badabop boom,” Patton continued, and the light began to go flare. Deceit began to waver, coughing, as the beat trailed off.

“Pow.” Patton said simply, and Deceit screamed, vanishing into a burst of light. There was a moment of silence, before Patton turned back to the sides and his hype crew.

“But I’m not a rapper,” he said with a grin, and the hype crew _exploded_ , screaming and hollering and jumping up and down.

And it was sick as hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> amazingly, this crack fic also has art. [check it out!](https://lovelylogans.tumblr.com/post/171209726751/actually-al-psyche-thats-the-wrong-number)


	10. hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this when i couldn't sleep, so.

One, two, three, four, five. There, the way he can flex his thumb just so, the way it pops only some of the time. Here, the veins protruding against his skin, greenish in the low light. One, two, three, four, five. The jagged edge where he picked at his pointer finger nail earlier in the week, the sensitive press from where he’s torn a hangnail too far. The bend in his middle finger his pointer finger tucked into so neatly, or maybe it was the other way around. One, two, three, four, five. The crooked ridge of his nails on his ring finger, the way he could press his pinky delicately out of its socket before it eased back into place, no harm done, no hurt felt. One, two, three, four, five.

The familiar strain when he crosses his fingers too hard, the way his fingers tremble if he pushes them back for too long, too hard. The bite of his nails in the delicate skin beside his nails. The soft click-click when he taps his tips of his nails into the beds of the others. One, two, three, four, five.

These are his hands and they are constant except for where they change and grow and destruct with him. They are his to mangle and his to control and his to touch.

He is alone in a dark room with only the distant light from the window igniting him and he is sitting up in his bed, mapping out his hands because he couldn’t manage the journey for his phone with the swamping shadows around him. There are socks on his feet and a shirt loose against his chest and his blankets are tangled, shoved aside, too hot and too much. One, two, three, four, five. Five fingers on each hand and five toes on each foot. Two legs, two arms, two eyes, two ears, two lungs, two shoulders. He cannot muster up the strength or resolve or energy to cross a room so here are the things he will distract himself with until his brain quiets enough for sleep.

This is where the burn scar used to be from when he accidentally hit the wires of the oven when getting a pizza before it healed over. This is where the strawberry marking is from accidentally knocking his hand into the cabinet when getting a mug this morning. This is where the freckle lies behind his ear.

Do not think, do not think, there is only the body and the dark and he is the body and he is not the dark.

Here, the twin divots of his knee when he straightens his leg. There, the birthmark that looks like an errant smudge of dirt. These are the muscles of his thigh, long and strong, and they do not give when he presses into them with his fingertips. But there is the softness of his calves, and here is the softness of his stomach.

These are the ridges of his floating false ribs, and that is the rib that flows up to connect to the angry ridge of his sternum, firm and protective. These are the bumpy vertebrae of his neck that forms the column that holds all of him up.

He presses his hands against his chest and takes a few awed moments to feel his heart thump, the strongest muscle there was. Aortas and ventricles and valves. Blood and oxygen.

This is his hair. These are his eyebrows. Those soft squishy things are his eyes. He scrunches up his nose and tests how easily the cartilage of it will give. These are his cheeks, warm under his hands, and these are his lips, just barely chapped, and dry. This is his adam’s apple and that is the hollow of his throat, and these are tendons or maybe sinew, he can never remember the difference. This is another point where the echo of his heart is loud and clear, and he takes a moment to feel the blood rushing from his head.

He is the body and he is the brain, or he has the body and he has the brain. They were inextricable, these things, and he could barely spare a thought for them now. Philosophy could wait until he was out of the dark.

There is so much detail here. There is the lock of hair that he first reaches to tug on in moments of frustration. There is the callus that formed on his hand that he could never be rid of. There is the rough prickly skin at the bottom of his feet. There is the smooth sweeping curve of the shell of his ear. His teeth are giant in his mouth. There is the way his kneecap shifts from side to side if he presses. There is a cluster of freckles, draped over his shoulders like a cape bestowed by the sun.

There are these things he is feeling it all with, the long line of his forearm almost graceful, the bones of his wrist easy to find, his fingers always reaching. These are his hands, and they are his, and they will always be his.

He is made up of hard things and soft things and smooth things and rough things and they are all his. He is the body and he is not the dark.

One, two, three, four, five.


	11. strategy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this right after "can lying be good?" came out.

If someone took barely a glance at the mindscape, it could almost be perceived as a normal day.

Patton was at the counter, mixing something for some delicious baked good. Logan was sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded by books, Roman sitting opposite him, sharpening his sword and whistling a Disney song. Virgil, perched on the counter, eyes carefully tracking Roman’s constant movements, straying occasionally to look at Patton or Logan.

If someone took a closer glance, they would notice Virgil’s white-knuckled grip on his own hoodie. That Patton was mixing his batter far beyond the point of necessity, movements jerky as Patton gnawed at his lip. The disheveled state of Logan’s hair, the messy notes beside him, the way he worried the corner of the page between his fingers. The song Roman was whistling was much slower than the original, like a dirge, the constant _snick-snick-snick_  of the whetstone providing an uneven kind of percussion.

_[I’ve got no strings, to hold me down, to make me fret, or make me frown—](https://youtu.be/I1968HY4DKc?t=36s) _

_“Pinocchio,”_ Virgil bit out, and everyone stilled as the tenuous peace broke. “Really? That’s the song stuck in our head today?”

“I don’t always _pick_ it,” Roman snaps, own grip tightening at his sword, removing the whetstone from the blade. “Outside influence always—“

“It’s not outside,” Patton said, soft, not having turned from his bowl, and both Roman and Virgil glanced at his back, the line of Patton’s shoulders too high to sell that he wasn’t upset. 

Roman huffed out a breath. “Yes. Fine. _Insider_  influence always holds some sway.”

Virgil makes a scoffing noise in the back of his throat, foot thumping against a cabinet as he directed his glower out of the window.

Logan’s pen _scritch-scritched_  against the paper, hardly slowing his hand as he spoke. “We knew this day was coming.”

“Not so _soon,”_ Roman said. “Not so well hidden.”

Virgil glanced over at Patton. “You really didn’t know anything was wrong?”

Patton shook his head. “I was just in my room,” he said, and then, “Hand me the nonstick sheet pan, kiddo, please.”

Virgil hopped off the counter and started clattering in the cabinet, perhaps a bit more than necessary, before handing Patton the necessary pan and hopping back onto the counter, arms crossing over his stomach. 

“Nothing?” Roman pressed. “Nothing at all?”

Patton shrugged, and admitted, “I was a bit busy thinking over the whole _lying_  thing. I didn’t realize you all had—met up.”

“The last time, they took advantage of us when we were separated,” Logan said. “Something we shall endeavor to do as little as possible. Of course, it’s impossible to stay together all the time—“

“They’re not all coming back right away,” Patton said, dumping out his batter perhaps a bit too quick, a splash landing on the counter. He grimaced at it.

“They will. They _have.”_  Roman said, trading out his whetstone for polishing materials.

Logan’s grip tightened on the pen, and perhaps it was a squeeze too far, because the cheap pen snapped in his hand. Logan closed his eyes, let out a forceful huff of air through his nose, and conjured a new one, tossing the broken one towards the other three he’d snapped.

“There are too many variables when it comes to them,” Logan said, voice purposefully calm. “We know their old tricks, of course. But they will have likely changed and grown as we have. Even in the space of the last year and a half, our development has been immense. We can assume that theirs likely has, as well. Therefore, we can make estimations and plans contingent upon their previous behaviors and habits, but they could be strategizing, too. Planning.”

“None of them can plan like you,” Patton said, firm, wiping up the spill with a paper towel. “We all have strengths that they don’t have—“

“And vice versa,” Logan said, terse. “These conflicts come down to force of will, an element of surprise, and...” His eyes went to Virgil, and then focused down on his page of notes. “These plans are inherently flawed. But we have no other basis to build our strategy from, so they will have to do.”

“A flawed idea is better than no idea at all,” Roman said, tilting his blade so it caught the light. “It can be improved upon later. Isn’t that what you’re always telling me? First drafts. Hardly flawed.”

There was the soft clang of the oven door opening and closing, the soft thump of Patton depositing his oven mitts on the counter, and then a little grunt as Patton hopped up on the counter, keeping a careful amount of space between himself and Virgil, and Logan and Roman turned to more fully face the other two.

“So,” Logan said. “Objectively, there is very little we know about what they will do next.”

“Subjectively, we’re fucked,” Virgil said, under his breath, and for once, Patton didn’t scold him for the language.

“We can’t have that kind of attitude,” Roman said, flicking his hand in a weak approximation of his usual grandeur. 

“It’s my _thing,”_ Virgil said.

“What, defeatism?” Roman said, angling a critical glance at Virgil, who glowered back at him. 

“Virgil’s no defeatist,” Logan said, edged on a sigh. 

“Tensions are going to rise,” Patton said, “but we have to stick together, okay? Logan’s right. Bad things happened when we separated.”

“If we stick together, we can’t lose,” Roman said, forcefully cheerful. 

“Exactly!” Patton said.

Logan and Virgil exchanged glances, and Logan scratched the tip of his pen absently over his paper, clearing his throat.

“So, of course, I have a relatively clear memory of what happened the last couple of times we... clashed, but there were, of course, moments I... was not physically present.”

The room went quiet again.

“There were moments that we all missed out on,” Patton said, faint. “As a matter of fact, you’ll have to catch me up on what he did, while I was gone. When he was pretending to be me.”

“Not much,” Logan said, listless. “He attempted to goad us into lies. There was a theatrical production. He attempted to goad us into more lies. The usual.”

“Theatrical production,” Patton murmured, glancing over, and Roman’s grip tightened on his sword’s handle before he smiled, sword flashing in the light.

“Well, at least I got to act with Thomas,” Roman said grandly. “The first of many phenomenal shows, I’m sure.”

“Roman,” Patton began, soft, and Roman said tightly, “We were talking strategy. Logan, what are your plans? Maybe we’ll have something to offer.”

Logan glanced at Roman, and straightened a pile of notes. “Perhaps it should wait until we have Patton’s food. It’ll be a long talk.”

“We’re in for a lot of long talks,” Virgil said, curling in tighter on himself.

“As long as we’re together,” Patton said, obstinate, and smiled brightly. “Everything’s gonna be okay. It’ll be fine.”

None of them acknowledged the hidden, distant expectation to turn and see someone wearing a bowler hat behind them. Roman’s grip tightened on his sword, and he took in another even breath.

“It’ll be a long night,” Logan said, and pushed his hair out of his face again. “Let’s get to editing.”


	12. trans!roman prompt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nicolethequeenofdarkness asked: Could you do a human au where Roman is trans and has a day with EXTREME dysphoria and the others are worried so they come in his room to see him shirtless in a red and gold sports bra absolutely DESTROYING his punching bag, and he sees them and says(after punching the bag really hard) "I am still a man, a manly man,a man who is manly" and Logan just smiles and says, "and don't you forget it" LAMP please?
> 
> author note: i’m a cis girl and i’ve never really had to deal with gender dysphoria, though i am familiar with being uncomfortable with my body. so i wrote this from the perspective of an outsider (logan) and just… keep in mind that i am not trans so i don’t really know the experience. anyways! on with the fic!

Logan was not the one who could spot Roman’s lowering mood without fail; that dubious honor went to Patton, with Virgil as a close second. But Logan had practiced learning the warning signs, and had a constantly updating list amongst his notes.

The most obvious one would always be Roman’s hair. On bad days, Roman’s hair looked more like Virgil’s than his usual style; tangled, and something for him to hide under, and bangs flopping into his eyes. On worse days, Roman’s hair would be styled within an inch of its life, perfect and without a hair out of place. Of course, Roman’s hair was meticulous on good days, but on bad days it was different: obvious that Roman had invested time into it, hands floating up to make sure not a strand was out of place, no knots forming. 

It is the most obvious, visible sign, and the one Logan tunes into first that morning when Roman enters the kitchen. Logan can see a distinct, cautious curl. Roman has used pomade in his hair. 

“Hello, Roman,” Logan said, taking a sip of coffee and priding himself on his neutral tone. “Did you sleep well?”

The pause Roman has before responding is another warning sign, and Logan scratches his nail over a chip in the porcelain of his mug, rubbing his finger again the rough sensation.

“A bit of a coffee morning, but it happens, I suppose,” Roman said grandly, and Logan thinks to his notes: _picking his words more carefully._  

“Mm,” Logan said, neutral, and takes notice of what Roman is wearing. White, gold, red. Comfort colors. His signatures, of course, but these are more formal and stylish than what Roman would usually wear for his day’s schedule. 

“How was your shift last night?” Roman asked, smiling, and Logan let himself simply talk about his upcoming classes, the homework he had to complete, and at last Roman dropped a kiss to his cheek, and floated carefully out of the room before Logan could ask him anything else. He only realized when the sound of Roman’s footsteps faded that he had been distracted.

He carefully unlocked his phone and sent identical texts to Virgil and Patton: _Keep an eye on Roman today._

 _which signs?_ Virgil texted back almost immediately, because Virgil understood how Logan classified emotion differently than the other two did, and Logan sent back _Pomade in hair, formal clothes, more cautious while speaking._  A pause, and then he added, _He didn’t talk about himself at all at breakfast._

 _fuck ok_ , Virgil sent back, and _pat’s gonna “surprise” him with lunch back at the apartment around noon, you free?_

Logan’s already texting back a regretful negative—he has a lunch meeting with his thesis advisor that he really can’t miss—which Virgil accepts, then goes radio silent, probably relaying all of this to Patton. 

In the same way that there were tried and true methods of spotting Roman’s bad days, there were tried and true methods of cheering him up, each of them with their own variations. 

Patton had a variety of methods; big group lunches, lots of long hugs, offers of heartfelt conversations and a ready-to-listen ear, Disney movie marathons and blanket forts. Patton was the best at making Roman, no, all of them, feel safe in their home and in their own skin; Patton was the one who could settle him the easiest.

Logan would usually pull Roman aside with an innocent question about Pablo Neruda or Lucie Brock-Broido or whichever poet they had both read recently. They would fall into obsessive conversations about syntax and diction and voice, as Logan was primary at arguing Roman out of his own head, until Roman was focused on nothing other than slant rhyme, or why Logan was apparently _wrong about this particular use of symbolism, really, Logan, it’s all about_ — 

Virgil would, depending on the day, either poke Roman into a squabble on days where he was furious and antsy, or send Roman repeated funny videos or Disney theories until Virgil could, essentially, sit on Roman and distract his dysphoria into submission.

It depended on what Roman needed. And Roman had gotten only slightly better about telling them which of them he needed, at any given moment, but the key word in that sentence was _slightly._  For so many days, like today, they needed to coax him out of it, because Roman’s default state was to paste a blinding smile on his face and disarm everyone around him with how very charming he could be, with no hint of how horribly he was feeling. 

At first, it had confused Logan, a little, that they had to coax him at all; _surely if he doesn’t want to be bothered, we shouldn’t bother him,_  Logan had asked Patton once, when they were all newly friends, not even romantically involved yet, not even _living_  together yet. 

 _Some days he’ll need that,_  Patton had said, _but some days, it’s exhausting to keep pretending you’re fine when you feel like you’re drowning. And a lot of the times, we just need to show him that we’re there for him, even if he doesn’t want to talk about it. The gesture of support is the important thing. It’s up to him if he wants to take us up on it or not. And that’s the important part: it’s up to **him.**  Not us._

Logan had to fight the urge to check his phone during his lunch meeting with his advisor. He could feel it buzz against his thigh, and his fingers twitched with the urge to pick up his phone, turn it over, read what Patton and Virgil were reporting to him. His chicken sandwich was dry and unappetizing in his mouth when Logan was too busy thinking about Patton’s comfort foods he’d be making for Roman, casual as anything: grilled cheese and tomato soup, because it was cold outside.

As soon as his advisor left for a bathroom break, Logan fished out his phone, scrolling feverishly through his texts, and let out a soft breath at the key words: _upset,_  was one. _Stormed off,_  another. _Give him some space._

Logan felt his lips pinch tigh together, and sent back, _As soon as I’m done with this lunch, we’re going to find him._

Patton texted back with a variety of encouraging emojis, and Logan only sent back the address of the tiny café his advisor had selected.

During the lunch meeting, he cannot help but only give half his attention to his thesis (ahead of schedule, ahead of the deadline, _keep it up at this rate, Logan, but I wanted to talk with you about where you take the argument on page seven_ — _)_  because the other half was trying to construct what might have happened while he had not been present. 

Had Patton tried opening with casual open arms? It wasn’t often (three of the last twenty dysphoric days, approximately a 23% likelihood when factoring in all known dysphoric days throughout Logan’s history of knowing him, a rapid decrease in the percentage since they’d initiated their relationship) that Roman outright refused physical reassurance; cheek kisses and hugs were Patton’s usual fare, and Virgil tended to worm into Roman’s space, catlike, and Logan usually allowed Roman to kick his feet into his lap so Logan could rub absentminded circles with his thumbs against his bony ankles. 

Had Virgil tried to steer Roman towards obscure Disney theories? Had Roman tried to act okay, like he had in the morning, or had his face screwed up and he’d abruptly tossed down his spoon and grabbed his coat and left without a word? Had he snapped at them, wailed at them, maybe, and left in a hurry once he’d realized what he’d said? Logan was scratching his thumbnail aggressively into the wood of the table, half-expecting to wear a groove into it by the end of the lunch. 

 _It is logical to worry,_  Logan told himself, _it is logical to worry. He is your boyfriend, and it is logical to worry about his well-being. You are not being unreasonable. You are not overreacting. You are allowed to have these reactions. It is logical to worry about the people you love._

The words are half in Patton’s voice, and Logan cannot help but think of the way Patton twists his fingers together when he’s worried, the way Virgil gnaws at his lips or his nails, and he cannot help but imagine Patton with a white-knuckled grip on his steering wheel and Virgil hunched low in his seat as they drove to the café.

As soon as his advisor thanks him for his time, Logan is abruptly dropping a twenty on the table and scrambling to pick up his backpack, not stopping to wait for change, and swept out of the restaurant so swiftly he nearly knocked his water glass off the table with his backpack, but he didn’t particularly care, eyes scanning the lot for Patton’s beat-up, old, blue sedan.

_Where, where, where, where— **there.**_

The smiley-face sticker on Patton’s bumper. Logan walked hurriedly towards it, and, yes, Patton and Virgil were sitting in the car just as he imagined—Patton, whiteknuckling the wheel even as he was parked, Virgil, slouched as far as he could go.

“Have you checked anywhere?” Logan asked, voice only slightly calm.

“No one at the stage has seen him, and no one at the rehearsal rooms has either,” Patton reported, and Logan tried not to curse. Those were the two most likely options. From there, they would move into conjecture, and—Logan flattened his hands on the console, leaning forwards.

“How upset was he?” Logan asked. “Did he… say anything?”

“In and out,” Patton said, hushed. “Dropped something off in his room, grabbed a sandwich, headed right back out again. Didn’t stop to talk.”

“Bag,” Virgil muttered, hand in front of his mouth as he gnawed at his thumbnail. “Grabbed a bag.”

“Which bag,” Logan asked, head swiveling towards him, and Virgil shrugged, an up-down of his shoulders. “Patton? Did you see?”

“It would have been little,” Patton said, frowning, and Logan took a breath.

“His theater bags have too many clothes in them, they’re the big ones,” Logan said, trying to recall what he knew of Roman’s minimal organization system. “A little bag? What would Roman do with a…” Something clicked.

“What shoes was he wearing?” Logan asked, looking between Patton and Virgil, who both looked at each other, and then Logan.

“They squeaked,” Virgil provided. “When he turned to leave. They squeaked.”

“Sneakers,” Logan said, nodding. “Okay. So—“

“The gym,” Patton said, already putting the car in reverse. “He’s at the gym.”

Once they turned onto the road, Patton then proceeded to hit the gas like it has said something _very_  rude about his mother, and Logan hastily buckled his seatbelt, hoping that they would be fortunate enough to avoid any cop lying in wait. 

They split, as soon as they get to the gym; Patton goes to the weights room, Virgil, cardio, and Logan to trawl the private rooms on the lowest level. All three of them are clenching their phones. 

It barely takes Logan much time before he heard a familiar, angry clash of music.

 _[WHAT MAKES YOU THINK I’D LOSE MY MIND FOR YOU?!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zOsg2w-l59U)_ the singer screamed with a burst of drums and guitar, barely muffled by the walls of the room. Logan peeked hesitantly in the door’s window. 

Yes, that’s the long, familiar line of Roman’s spine, his back sweating, skin covered by a red and gold sports bra—Logan can sigh in relief that he isn’t working out with his binder on, which he’d done before, and Logan had lectured him semi-hysterically about.

 _boxing room 4,_  he sent hastily to Patton and Virgil, before he knocked hesitantly on the door.

A brief pause in Roman’s rhythm, before he resumed, and Logan carefully opened the door.

“What gave me away this time?” Roman snorted derisively, fist driving into the bag again, again, again. He still hadn’t turned back to look at Logan.

“Sneakers,” Logan admitted, closing the door behind him, cutting off the flow of music into the hallway. Roman had wrapped his hands, too, and his gloves were on, and Logan was thankful that he’d at least paused to do that, lest they be dealing with split and bruised knuckles for a week and a half. “Virgil heard squeaking, Patton saw the bag.”

_Thud, thud, thud._

“Do you want me to leave?” Logan asked Roman’s back. “Would you prefer one of the others?”

 _Thud, thud, thud._  “I really don’t want to hear about how I’m feeling is valid right now, thanks.”

“It is,” Logan began, leaning against the wall, and continued over the thudding, “but it’s important to keep in mind that emotions aren’t reliable, either. To some extent, our minds try to trick us.”

A pause, and Roman’s hand caught the bag when he mixed up the rhythm, and Logan continued.

“I usually only talk cognitive distortions with Virgil, but I can keep talking about them now, if you’d like.”

A nod, and Roman turned his attention back to the bag.

“Okay,” Logan said, and took a moment to rephrase the explanations he’d given to Virgil about anxiety, to frame them in the form of Roman and dysphoria; it didn’t take particularly much shuffling. _Control fallacies, personalization, catastrophizing, jumping to conclusions, global labeling. External vs. internal control, not everything is directly related to what you do and comparison is not helpful; people often magnify the importance of events that are relatively insignificant; you are not able to determine what someone else is feeling towards you unless they explicitly tell you so; mislabling often involves events that are emotionally loaded and there is often an error of context._

At some point, when Logan was in the middle of talking about catastrophizing, the door opened again, Patton and Virgil peeking in before carefully stepping in, Patton squeezing Logan’s shoulder encouragingly.

“Was that helpful?” Logan asked, once his lecture wound down, and Roman punched the bag.

“I am a man,” he said, sounding more like he was trying to convince himself than trying to convince them. “A manly man. A man who is manly.”

At last, Roman turned his head over his shoulder, glancing at Logan for the first time, who tried his best to give his best facsimilie of Patton’s reassuring smile.

“And don’t you forget it.”


	13. "can i kiss you?" prinxiety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> actually-al asked: Well in that case surprise me with a 46, maybe prinxiety? (Cause I really enjoyed your True love gave to me fic)

It was the time of year that all college students dreaded, hated, and killed a piece of their soul to complete: finals week. 

It would probably be indicative by looking at their apartment; Logan had claimed the vast majority of the living room floor, notes and study maps and flash cards spread out in a wide abundance that only made sense to him. Patton had hold of the kitchen table and counters, where he’d stress-bake in the midst of cramming down any information he could.  

This left Roman and Virgil to sprawl in their own rooms, or in the hallway, which they had; Roman was blankly reciting a sonnet, over and over and over, as Virgil had on his biggest headphones, attempting to block out everything in the world apart from his stats notes (he hated gen eds, _he hated gen eds,_ **he hated gen eds** ) and his practice worksheets.

And Roman. Admittedly, also Roman. Virgil couldn’t spare any more of his thoughts to Roman this week, he’d already been driven nearly insane. Had it been a week? It felt much longer.

There was a tap on his shoulder, and Virgil moved his headphones off of one ear, looking at Roman in askance.

“Patton’s break timer’s going off,” Roman said. “It’s a long one, so. Kitchen?”

Patton, upon seeing how the various apartment residents could fall into states of general disrepair surrounding academics but especially finals week (Logan, especially) had set up a mandatory break system in the midst of their not-group studying methods. In the distance, he could hear Logan complaining (” _I just have to finish this notecard set, Patton, really, I’ll be right there—”)_  and he sighed, accepting Roman’s hand up, only to stagger when he stood.

Roman, still holding onto his hand, managed to catch him in his arms and grimaced. “Feet asleep?”

“Feet asleep,” Virgil agreed, attempting to stomp the feeling back into his toes, ignoring the sensation of pins and needles, and also trying to ignore Roman.

“None of that,” Roman declared, and abruptly Virgil found himself in Roman’s arms, Roman’s arms bracketing his shoulders and knees, as Virgil clung to Roman’s shoulders in surprise.

“I told you to stop doing that,” Virgil said, flushing desperately as Roman cautiously picked his way around all the papers that would make an environmentalist weep. 

“Mm, and yet,” Roman said, as he swept into the kitchen, “I do not care.”

Virgil sighed, and allowed it, set down into his usual kitchen chair, trying his hardest not to burst into flames. Just in time to see Patton patiently pulling a still-complaining Logan by the hand to the table.

“Roman,” Patton said pleasantly over Logan’s huffing, “please sit on my boyfriend to make sure he doesn’t sneak back to astronomy.”

Logan glowered at Roman. “Don’t you dare.”

“Too late,” Roman chirped, sprawling grandly across Logan’s lap, wrapping his arms around Logan’s neck. Relievingly, this left Virgil to look at Logan, and not at Roman. “I know who runs this household, I’m doing as your boyfriend says.”

Patton smiled, tried to smooth down some of Logan’s tugged-on hair, and swept off to the kitchen.

Logan sighed, and grudgingly moved to support some of Roman’s weight so he could dramatically pose to his heart’s content, even as he was pinning Virgil with a look that said _how are you in love with this._

A week ago, Virgil would have shrugged or scoffed. Now, after the whole fiasco, Virgil directed his bashful glance to the table. It was as much a mystery to him as it was to Logan.

“Okay, drink up, everyone, I want those waters done by the time break is over,” Patton declared, setting down four glasses already sweating with condensation. “And each of you are eating a sandwich, too, I know finals are stressful but I’m not letting any of you faint from low blood sugar or dehydration. Peanut butter and jelly or grilled cheeses?”

Patton turned into the most cheerful, mother-henning drill sergeant during finals week. It just so happened that this year, Patton had gotten take all but two of his early, and as such could hyper-fixate on how the rest of them were running themselves ragged in between his stress-baking and studying.

They voted on peanut butter and jelly, and Patton casually forced Virgil to sit back down when he attempted to rise to help him, shoving the glass into his hands when he opened his mouth to protest.

“Hydrate,” he said, serious tone only somewhat offset by the way he ruffled Virgil’s hair. “I’ll be back in a… Jif-fy.”

Logan directed his groan into Roman’s shoulder as Patton giggled his way towards the counter.

Virgil did as Patton said, taking a sip, and surprising himself by how much he started to drink, like he had only noticed how dry his throat was when it was being quenched. Virgil resurfaced, and Roman dug his heels into Virgil’s thighs in a kind of reassuringly bruising way. If it had been over a week ago, Virgil would have shoved him off, or huffed about it. Now… now all Virgil could do was overanalyze what this meant.

Before last week, Virgil could have assumed that Roman was just being a nuisance and left it alone, with a bit of eyerolling. After last week—with the dramatic confession on both side, the agreement from both that they needed time to think, the way Virgil’s mind was sent constantly spinning any time he laid eyes on Roman, ever since that day—now he could only wonder if Roman using him as a human footrest was a sign of affection, or if the pressure was meant to make Virgil move.

After a few minutes of silence, Patton swept back to the table with a plate teeming with sandwiches, tipping Roman out of Logan’s lap only to take his place there instead. Logan looked unusually blushy as Patton began to eat his sandwich with one hand and smooth Logan’s hair back down with the other.

Roman, meanwhile, did not budge his feet from Virgil’s lap, even as he was working to inhale three sandwiches at once. Patton kept on nudging sandwiches closer and closer to Virgil in a way that he probably thought was subtle, as he had kicked up a Feeding Virgil Campaign after he realized Virgil was perpetually underweight.

After everyone had eaten at least one sandwich, Patton brought over a tray of some of his stress-baked brownies, and then proceeded to sit on Logan as he tried to stealthily flip through a Quizlet notecard set on his phone.

“No,” Patton said firmly, setting Logan’s phone out of his reach.

“But—”

“ _No.”_

Logan sulked.

Roman kicked Virgil, a little, and said, “After break, will you run lines with me, real quick?”

“Yeah, all right,” Virgil said, reaching for his second brownie, acting like he was completely casual about this. “It’ll get me out of looking at standard deviations.”

The timer went off, and Patton kissed Logan on the cheek before allowing him to dive headfirst back into his papers. Roman and Virgil wandered back to their hallway, and Virgil squinted at the lines Roman dropped into his hands.

“You didn’t tell me you were doing _Pride and Prejudice.”_

“It’s more of a personal project,” Roman said, twisting his hands together. “Would you read Lizzie?”

“Yeah, sure,” Virgil said, and then squinted suspiciously at Roman. “What, no jokes about me being Darcy?”

Roman nodded pointedly to the script, tapping at where there was a little sticker flag noting where to begin. 

Virgil sighed, and looked at the page, and then blinked. “But this is—”

“Virgil,” Roman said, voice soft, and Virgil swallowed, before he spoke.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Virgil read, voice soft.

“Nor I,” Roman recited, voice slightly deeper, the way it always did when he was enunciating carefully. “My aunt…”

Virgil allowed himself a small smile, recalling this moment in the movie, his comfort movie, the one he’d put on whenever he was feeling sad. The one only Roman knew he loved. “Yes, she was here.”

“How can I ever make amends for such behavior?” Roman breathed, raspy and soft, and Virgil swallowed, directing his eyes to the lines. He couldn’t discern what that look from Roman meant, if it was acting or reality, and Virgil—Virgil was starting to _hope._

But he couldn’t. So he stared at the paper instead. _As if he needed lines for this movie._

“After what you’ve done for Lydia and, I suspect, for Jane, it is I who should be making amends.” Virgil read flatly, with none of the tenderness this line implied. Despite just having hydrated, Virgil’s mouth was very dry.

“You must know. Surely you must know it was all for you.” Roman murmured, and very suddenly his fingers were gently, gently brushing across Virgil’s knuckles from where he was gripping the paper hard enough to wrinkle it. 

“You are too generous to trifle with me.”

Roman’s fingers carefully, softly, entwined with Virgil’s, holding Virgil’s hand with both of his. 

“I believe you spoke with my aunt last night and it has taught me to hope as I’d scarcely allowed myself before,” Roman murmured, and Virgil was still staring at how Roman had his hand all wrapped up in both of his, how warm and dry Roman’s hands were, how so soft and gentle he was, like Virgil would startle and run if Roman raised his voice. Which wasn’t that far off of an assumption, really. 

“If your feelings are still what they were last week, tell me so at once.” 

“Roman,” Virgil tried to say at last, finally looking up, and he nearly _did_  startle when he saw the way Roman’s eyes were _fixed_  on him, so soft and so _honest_  that it stole whatever words Virgil was about to say right out of his mouth. 

“My affections and wishes have not changed,” Roman said, voice soft and urgent all at the same time. “But one word from you will silence me forever. lf, however, your feelings have changed…” 

 _They haven’t,_  Virgil wanted to say, _I still want you, I still—_

“I would have to tell you,” Roman whispered, and Virgil felt the absurd urge to laugh, thinking about the movie, that ridiculously romantic misty moor, and where he and Roman were, sitting amongst strewn study guides and Virgil was pretty sure he still had peanut butter on his face, but here Roman was, dramatic and romantic as ever. 

“You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love…” Still looking Virgil in the eye, pressing a kiss to Virgil’s knuckles, soft and gentle.

“I love…” He breathed, and opened Virgil’s hand, kissing his palm, before folding it all back up again, a hand reaching to cup Virgil’s face.

“I love you,” He said earnest, staring into Virgil’s eyes. “And I never wish to be parted from you from this day on.”

“Well, then.” Virgil croaked out at last, staring at Roman still, unable to tear his gaze away, and Roman smiled.

 **“Can I kiss you?”** He whispered, and at last, Virgil nodded.

Roman’s hands were cupping his face, and slow, careful, Roman’s lips pressed against Virgil’s. Virgil almost couldn’t breathe, with how tender and soft he was. When Roman’s tongue brushed against Virgil’s bottom lip, Virgil couldn’t help but gasp a little. _Is this happening?_  Virgil wanted to ask, but he didn’t want to deal with the reality where it wasn’t. He wanted this one.

What felt like both too long and too short, at last, they broke apart, pressing their foreheads together, breathing in each other’s space, Roman’s hands still cupping Virgil’s face, and Virgil’s heart fluttering ridiculously happy in his chest as his hands rested on the back of Roman’s neck, tentative and uncertain.

“Your hands are cold.” Roman said, and Virgil could hear the smile in his voice. Virgil couldn’t help but laugh, giddy and bright.


	14. "you're a disappointment" logince

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: "you're a disappointment" logince. for the prompt!  
> author note: i bet you wanted angst but SIKE we got some FLUFFY SNARKY BOIS

“Looooo-gaaaan!” Roman trilled from approximately one floor between them, and an additional thirty feet away. At his desk, Logan could only sigh a little.

“I’m working,” he yelled flatly, not moving his eyes from the blue light that was making his eyes water. 

“Logan,” Roman said, and, yes, there were his delicate princely footsteps stomping up the stairs (Virgil had been trying to reinforce sarcasm, as of late) “Logan. Honeybee. My love. Darling. My moon and stars, my—”

“None of your pet names change the fact that I’m working,” Logan said, studiously avoiding looking at Roman. As soon as he looked at Roman, it was game over, the day was interrupted, and he’d be pulled into whatever tomfoolery Roman had planned. And he had to finish this work.

“Does the fact that you’ve been sitting at your desk for six hours straight change anything?” Roman chirped in his ear, and Logan tried his best not to act like that fact had surprised him.

“It does not change the fact that I need to finish this work, Roman, it doesn’t matter how long it—“ Logan began, and blinked. The desk was getting further away. The desk was getting further away?

“Roman,” Logan began, already moving to hold his cellphone close to his chest, because Roman’s next move would be to wrestle it out of his hands. He had overlooked the fact that Roman had laid hands on his rolling desk chair until it was too late, and he watched in dismay as the computer went further and further away. “This is important, _really_ —“

“Six hours,” Roman repeated, forcefully cheerful, a note of strain under his words. “Six hours! Now I’m going to take your phone, don’t think I didn’t see you try to hide it in your frocket just now—“

“…Frocket?”

“Front pocket, frocket—and you are only going to look at blue light if it is a Disney movie!”

“No—“

“—yes and! You’re going to the bathroom to freshen up a bit and you are going to eat a full meal and drink some water and I’m going to cuddle you, and you’re going to tolerate it, and be at least a little subtle with how much you want to desert me for your one true love, work.”

Roman proceeded to shove his hands into Logan’s _frocket_ , and Logan tried his best to push his hands away, which devolved into a bit of a slap-fight between them, until Roman at last managed to snag Logan’s phone and stick it in his pocket. 

Roman cheerfully dumped Logan from his desk chair into the bathroom, beaming at him as Logan huffed, adjusting his glasses.

“If you sneak back to your desk, I _will_  carry you down the stairs and hide your phone,” Roman said, and added a chipper little, “Love you!”

Logan sighed, and moved to take care of himself, and freshen up to Roman’s standards.

Logan slouched out of the bathroom five minutes later, water splashed on his face and hair combed, only for Roman to assault him with a handful of goo, and Logan jerked back.

“ _What_  are you doing?!”

“Face mask,” Roman said, before continuing to smear the goo over Logan’s face. “Because I’m sure you haven’t washed your face or taken care of yourself at all.”

Logan squinted, as Roman removed his glasses, and asked cautiously, “Are you… angry with me?”

The smell of the mask was pleasant, and it began to permeate the air. Roman was carefully nudging Logan’s hair out of the way and smoothing the mask over Logan’s forehead before he answered.

“I realize I’m one to talk, but if you keep overworking yourself, Logan, you’re going to burn out. I’m not angry, I’m… concerned.”

Logan’s eyes narrowed at him, and Roman flashed him a grin, pulling back his fingers and wiggling them so the goo caught the light.

The [bright blue](https://www.amazon.com/Freeman-Minerals-Facial-Anti-Stress-Ounce/dp/B007CY2C76) goo. That was now all over Logan’s face.

“And I got a bit of revenge anyways,” he snickered, and Logan swatted at him half-heartedly, pulling a face as Roman leapt out of the way, washing the residue off his hands. Logan surveyed him for a moment, watching his face in the mirror, before he approached, wrapping his arms around Roman’s waist.

And immediately smearing his face all over Roman’s white shirt. 

“NO!” Roman yelped, trying to squirm out of Logan’s arms. “Get off, you—you villain! Dmitri Mendel-leave-me-alone!” 

Just for that, Logan made sure smear some of the mask into Roman’s hair, and Roman spun, overbalancing Logan, so they landed on the bathroom tile. Roman was laughing even as Logan landed on top of him, asking if he was okay.

“You’re a menace,” Roman said with a grin, flicking Logan in the cheek. “I’m going to have to reapply that, you know.”

“And I’ve ruined your shirt,” Logan said, angling Roman with his best impression of Roman’s own ridiculously sultry looks, which made Roman snort with laughter. “You’ll have to take it off.”

“Oh, I see your cunning plan,” Roman teased, trying to squirm out of his shirt even as Logan was still on top of him. “You get me to rescue you from the jaws of death—“

“Astronomy.”

“—whatever—only to seduce your brave, dashing hero. I see you, Logan, you aren’t slick.”

Logan rolled his eyes, and moved just enough to allow Roman to remove his shirt before flopping back on top of his chest, tracing a nonsense pattern on Roman’s collarbone. “Brave, dashing hero, hm? What was your cunning plan, if rolling me away from the desk didn’t work?”

Roman paused, eyebrow furrowing, and he was silent for long enough that Logan smirked.

“Brave, dashing hero. With _one_  plan.”

“Hey, that plan worked!”

“ **You’re a disappointment**  of a hero, I would have thought Virgil and I taught you the importance of a back-up plan.”

“Well, here’s your back-up plan,” Roman said, arching up, and Logan rolled his eyes even as their lips met for a playful, short kiss, and when they pulled back, Roman cooed, sticking his finger into the squish of Logan’s cheek. 

“Aw, you even look handsome when you look like Violet Beauregarde.”

“You break into my apartment, you insist I entertain you, you compare me to a children’s book character—”

“I broke into your apartment, _saved you from the jaws of death—”_

“Astronomy!”

“—and make a _very_  fitting comparison, and now I am being _squashed_  into the _cold bathroom tile—”_

 “It’s not _that_  cold.”

“You are not _shirtless,”_  Roman huffed, and at last got his hands on Logan’s hips to dislodge him, only for Logan to make a harsh squeaking noise as Roman swept Logan over his shoulder, hauling him out into the living room.

“Big Hero Six time, Big Hero Six time!” Roman sang, in a ridiculous falsetto, and Logan at last closed his eyes and allowed himself to smile about his absurd, doting, histrionic boyfriend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone has made A R T for this prompt i cannot BELIEVE!! sidespart's adorable artwork can be found [here!!](https://lovelylogans.tumblr.com/post/172601886691/sidespart-some-fluffy-logince-fanart-for)


	15. "not you again" prinxiety

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mysticnachophilosopher asked: May I request, for the prompts, "Not you again," Prinxiety?

Roman usually liked his job.

He didn’t mind the early hours, and he loved the free pastries and coffee he could get on the job. The cafe he worked at was enough out of the way that the busy hours weren’t too extreme, and he had his fair share of regulars. 

Most of which he liked.

 _Most_.

“Sup, girl!” trilled one half of the regular duo that came in around 9, the other skulking in, staring at his phone. Roman tried his best not to be too obvious staring at him, and instead turned a slightly pained smile to the one who’d spoken.

“ **Not you again** ,” Roman said under his breath. Judging by the snort of the other member of the duo, he did not succeed in entirely muffling himself.

“Any ideas on what you’d like to try today?” Roman said, slightly louder, already warming his hands up for some extreme blending, whipping, and pumping activity.

“Mmm, gonna think about it a bit,” Remy-with-a-y trilled, and practically shoved the other half of the duo forwards, ignoring his glower. “I’m gonna go over to the menu, V, you go ahead and order.”

Roman tried his best not to sigh in relief. Honestly, he’d probably be friends with Remy, it’s just that his orders were probably going to be the reason for Roman’s early onset arthritis and/or carpal tunnel. Logan, another one of the baristas, that Remy coming in on his time was the universe paying him back for being such a drama queen all the time. Roman tended to kick Logan whenever he said it. And, well…

“Hi, Virgil,” Roman said, trying to give his best I-think-you’re-cute-but-recognize-you-have-a-boyfriend-and-I-respect-that-but-if-you-ever-break-up-please-call-me smile to him, leaning forwards on his elbows. “Is it going to be the usual?”

“Think so,” Virgil said, and rolled his eyes at Roman as he glanced over at Remy perusing the board. “As always, I apologize in advance.”

“Oh, as long as you tip, he can order whatever he wants,” _and if you stay and talk with me,_  Roman finished in his head, propping his chin on his hands and staring at Virgil. His eyeshadow was _particularly_  well-applied today, and he’d been leaning into wearing purple more and more lately, which made his eyes just _glow_ , and his hair looked so soft and fluffy—

“He’s been talking about how much extra caffeine and sugar he needs today,” Virgil said with an eyeroll, and Roman started warming his hands up even more, eyes sliding over to the flavor pumps. Did they have enough? Maybe he could go in the back and beg the pastry chef Patton for some vanilla essence if he went for something vanilla based, that would work, right?

Virgil snorted, as if he could read Roman’s mind, and said, “You know what, what’s the easiest thing for you? I want to save you as much work as possible.”

 _Remy seems pretty high-maintenance. And, like, okay, I can be, but I’m sure dating you wouldn’t be work for me at all—_ Roman let out a huff of air, and forcefully redirected his train of thought so he could actually answer the question.

“Probably just a plain coffee or a tea.”

“Tea, sure,” Virgil said. “Uh. Green’s supposed to be good, right?”

 _You know what else could be good? Me._ Roman smiled. “Green’s good,” he said, reaching for the cups. “What size?”

“Medium, thanks. Is tea, like. Sweet?”

 _I could be sweet! I can be a really sweet boyfriend to you. I mean, I’m not Patton levels of sweet, but I can handle declarations of romance really well—_ Roman finished off the last scrawl on the calligraphy of _Virgil,_  glanced at him, and then back at cup.  “I usually add honey to mine,” he said. “I know you’ve got a sweet tooth, Mr. White Chocolate Mocha, but—”

“Is that my usual?” Virgil said, looking surprised, and Roman laughed, dropping in a teabag and carefully pouring in the boiling water, not looking over at Virgil so he didn’t get distracted and burn himself.

“What, you didn’t know?”

“Remy handles the coffee orders,” Virgil said with a shrug, crossing his arms over his stomach, and if Roman’s smile was a bit more fixed, Virgil didn’t seem to notice. 

“Anything from the bakery?” Roman asked, gesturing grandly over to the case. “Patton made these little mini-pies, I nearly started crying when he had me sample them, they’re that good.”

“Yeah, okay, I’ll take one of those too,” Virgil said. “Whatever you think I’d like.”

_Me? Can it be me? You can take me, you won’t even have to pay, I can handle the first date, I bet you’d like me—_

Roman cut off that particular train of thought firmly before he could get whisked off to daydream land. “I think you’d like the apple. Cinnamon and vanilla?”

“Apple’s good,” Virgil said.

_I’m good, I could be really good, God I wish you didn’t have a boyfriend—_

He carefully scooped the pastry into a paper bag and did not at all die a little inside when their fingers brushed.

“Enjoy it,” Roman said.

“I’m sure I will,” Virgil said absently, eyes burning into him, and Roman absolutely did _not_  let himself think about that gaze focused on him without the veneer of coffee and pastries between them.

“All right,” Remy sing-songed, swanning over to the table. “Ready for this one, big boy?”

Roman readied his hand with a flourish, nodding at Remy. “List it off.”

“Okay, we’re going extra today, because I have a _date,_ ” he crooned, and Virgil snorted.

“Yeah, finally, you can stop whining my ear off about how single you are,” Virgil said, and Roman dropped the cup.

“Sorry, sorry!” Roman squeaked, grabbing a new one. _Do not get your hopes up he could still have a boyfriend! They could be poly! You don’t know that he’s single!_

“It’s just,” Roman said, and laughed a little, attempting to sound casual. “I thought you two were dating?”

Remy and Virgil started to laugh, and Roman tried his hardest not to swoon over one of Virgil’s rare smiles.

“Oh, honey, bless your _heart,”_  Remy said, wiping an imaginary tear from under his eye. “No no, I’ve known V since we were _kids,_  it’d be like dating my _brother.”_

Roman laughed along, and couldn’t quite manage to tear his eyes away from Virgil. 

“Ah, boy, Virgil and me _dating,”_ Remy said. “Like, he’s a sweetie, and _look_ at this face—“ Virgil attempted to duck Remy’s hand’s cupping his cheeks. “—but _tragically,_  Virgil’s single. _Soltero. Célibataire—”_

“Yeah, we get the message, I’m on the market,” Virgil said with a roll of his eyes, and okay, yeah, now Roman was getting his hopes up, and his heart was a happy little fluttery thing in his chest.

“Hey, don’t feel bad,” Roman said, and struck a pose. “Even prize catches like myself are single, too.”

He _definitely_  wasn’t imagining the spark of interest in Virgil’s eyes, nor was he imagining the way his chin snapped up, or the slightly dropped jaw.

“Y-yeah?” Virgil stuttered, and Roman grinned, picking up Virgil’s tea with a breath, before scrawling his number on it and finally passing it over to him, delighting now in the way their fingers brushed together.

“Tell you what,” Roman said, finally allowing his most sultry grin to split his face, “If you wanna try and reel me in, I get off at one. Didn’t pack lunch today, either.”

Virgil’s cheeks were tinged the _most_  delightful shade of pink Roman had ever seen. “Yeah, okay,” he said, staring at the cup, and then up at Roman, a flirty gaze from under his lashes. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“FINALLY,” Remy shrieked, and leaned over to smack a kiss to Virgil’s cheek before, much to Roman’s surprise, practically crawling over the counter to kiss Roman one-two-three-four times on the cheeks. “I have been trying to wingman you two for _weeks_ , Virgil doesn’t even _like_  coffee—”

“Rem, shut _up,”_  Virgil groaned, hiding his face in one hand.

“My work here is _done,”_  Remy said with a happy, overdrawn sigh, cramming a twenty into the tip jar and then another into Roman’s hands. “Lunch is on me, gentlemen—I don’t think I even need caffeine anymore!”

Roman laughed, and felt his cheeks start to match Virgil’s.


	16. sick!patton prompt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: Prompt: Patton is sick but doesn’t want the others to worry so he hides it for like 2 days. Virgil notices something wrong right away, but doesn’t say anything. It’s not until Patton starts burning up and feeling really drowsy that Verge starts to worry, and then they all help Patton and cuddle together and it’s just a happy fluffy ending or something like that. You can add your own twist onto this, if you want!! Congrats on all the followers!! You absolutely deserve them!!  
> lovelylogans said: ooOOH yes okay!! thank you so much for the prompt and the kind words!

Patton was trying to be better about hiding things.

It was just sometimes, there were little things that seemed too silly to mention. _I felt sad for a little because I saw a sad post about a dog_  didn’t feel particularly pressing, so he just didn’t mention it.

The fact that he’d been holed up in his room, feeling like he was coughing his heart out into his hands, was probably not quite a little thing. 

But by the time he realized the tickle in his throat had grown into sweating, shivering, and coughing ( _so_  much coughing) he felt too tired to get up and go get anything, so he curled up on his bed, trying his best to fall asleep and hope against the odds that he’d be all better with some rest.

Patton was miserable. In one second, he was too cold under the blankets and coiled into a tiny ball in an attempt to conserve heat; in the next, he was kicking the covers off and starfishing on his bed, trying to cool down. His throat ached and hurt, and he wished for it all to just be _better._  Patton always felt so _miserable_  when he was sick; it was his body trying to fight off disease, he knew, but he couldn’t help but feel like it was betraying him by acting this way. 

He had just kicked off the covers in frustration for the thirteen billionth time when a knock sounded on the door.

“Come in,” Patton rasped as loudly as he could, and winced at the raw feeling in his throat, the way the words seemed to scrape as he spoke. He sat up and squinted at the door, tapping around on his nightstand for his glasses and moving to stand up.

“Hey there, kidd— _whoa,”_  Patton said as he stood, stumbling to sit on the ground, his vision more full of black than color, head spinning.

“Oh, God,” Patton heard Virgil say, and then he felt a cold hand against his neck, pushing his head between his knees. “Just breathe, Pat, you’ll feel less bad soon.”

Patton did as Virgil said, taking in soft, whistling breaths through his stuffed nose and breathing slowly out of his mouth. “Sorry,” Patton mumbled to his knees.

“Don’t apologize, that’s what you’re always telling me, right?” Virgil said, and his hand squeezed on Patton’s neck. “I knew you were sick, why didn’t you say it was this bad?”

Patton only groaned, carefully blinking his eyes open, and blinking the last of the black out his vision. He sat up straighter, carefully, and said at last, “I thought it’d go away.”

Virgil sighed, a little, and Patton glanced over in time to see him rubbing his hoodie sleeves between his fingers. “Okay. Um, I’m gonna—um,” he said, and looked at Patton in askance. “What do you, like. Need?” 

Patton paused, considering, and croaked out, “Water.”

“Water,” Virgil said, seizing the word. “Okay, I can, uh, I can do that. You should, um, get back into bed.”

“Okay,” Patton mumbled—his brief stand and the subsequent dizzy spell took a lot out of him, it seemed, and sleep sounded better than ever. He crawled back onto his bed, and Virgil hesitated, before awkwardly patting him on the top of the head.

“Uh. We’ll take care of you, you’ll be better soon,” he said, and practically dashed out of the room. Patton squinted at his back.

_We?_

He didn’t have long to wonder, as not long after Virgil left he felt the mattress dip with added weight, and he squinted, mouth half open to thank Virgil for the water, only to squint some more.

“Apologies in advance for any of your anticipations of a me having a kind bedside manner,” Logan said, before holding up a thermometer. “Mouth open.”

Patton gave him a look until Logan sighed and added a grudging, “ _Please.”_

Patton opened his mouth, and Logan stuck the thermometer under his tongue, tapping at his chin to get him to close his mouth again.

“Where’s Virgil?” Patton asked around the thermometer, but it sounded more like a muddled  _wrsvirgl?_  

“Rounding up all the blankets in the house and frantically googling how to take care of a sick person, I’d expect,” Logan said, and said, sterner, “Mouth _shut,_  it won’t work if you talk.”

Patton closed his lips around the thermometer, and watched as Logan dug around a first aid kit until the thermometer beeped. Logan removed it from Patton’s mouth and tsked.

“What?” Patton asked. “What’s that sound mean?”

“It means bed rest for you,” Logan said, frowning at the thermometer, and just then the door opened again, bringing the final and most flamboyant roommate.

“ _Dearest_ Patton, you’ve fallen ill,” Roman declared, holding a tray and bustling over to his bedside. “Not to worry, we’ve got it all handled!”

Patton pushed himself up onto his elbows to investigate the tray, only for Roman to lovingly shove him back down onto his pillows.

“I’ve got a cold cloth for your head,” Roman said, laying said cold cloth into place, “and all kinds of cough drops that don’t taste like actual death, and a half-finished playlist on your phone, and some—“

“Yes, that’s all well and good,” Logan cut in, “but did you bring the ibuprofen?”

Roman passed over a bottle, and continued as if Logan hadn’t interrupted him at all. “—and some pillow spray to help you sleep, and some cozy socks for you to wear, and—”

“I’ve got the water,” Virgil announced from the door, and Patton watched bemused as Virgil sat down on the bed, the space getting rather cramped with four fully grown men all on a cheap mattress, handing over a massive water bottle that probably would have been better suited for a marathon runner.

But Patton was feeling pretty thirsty, so he pushed himself back up onto his elbows (without Roman shoving him back down this time) and took it, also accepting the ibuprofen Logan pushed into his hands.

“Drink slowly,” Logan added, and Patton shot him a fond look before he started to drink, taking exaggeratedly slow gulps. The icy water against his throat was a soothing, temporary balm against the scratchy, hot feeling in his throat, and Patton sighed in relief, laying back down and setting the water bottle back on the bedside table.

“Do you want anything else?” Roman asked, actually wringing his hands. “We can get it for you, no matter what it is.”

Patton paused, considering. He didn’t feel thirsty anymore, and the cool cloth on his forehead felt nice. He really mostly just felt _gross,_  icky and blah. Just generally miserable and _bad._

He said carefully, “I don’t want you guys to get sick—”

“We’ve all probably been exposed to it anyway,” Logan said helpfully.

“Cuddle pile?” Patton asked, soft.

The three of them exchanged a glance, and Virgil, with a stubborn set to his jaw, said, “Sure.”

“Okay, how are we doing this,” Roman said, already shifting, and said without looking over, “Come on, nerd, you aren’t getting out of this, Patton is sick and you’ve already been exposed—“

“Yes, all right, fine,” Logan said, and they all shifted, the other three making Patton move the least until Patton was in the midst of a cuddle pile, full of twisting limbs and body parts against other body parts, and surrounded by the warmth and comforting timber of his friends’ voices, Patton was feeling better already.


	17. sick!roman prompt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> musicwithalex asked: If its ok, for the prompt spree, could you please do a platonic royality fic where roman gets sick and refuses to rest until patton forces him to? I love patton being parental to roman and i feel like we dont get enough if that *cries*

Roman was obviously sick, from the moment he wandered down the stairs wearing his a hoodie over his royal tunic. Paired with the red, sniffly nose, and the very unsubtle sneeze he muffled into his sleeve, it was a foregone conclusion.

“Hey, Roman,” Patton said cautiously. “You’re up a bit late today, you all right there, buddy?”

Roman snuffled, nodded, and shuffled over to the cabinet, picking up a mug and a teabag. Not coffee. So he was absolutely sick.

Patton sighed, and figured that Roman would be curling back up in his bed in just a bit, so he let Roman make his tea and shuffle out of the kitchen without any words about it.

It took Patton a bit longer than he would have liked to realize that Roman was not, in fact, curling back up in bed with his perennial refills of tea. Two days too long, actually. He came face to face with it when he walked in the hallway near Roman’s room. Instead of hearing loud singing or an aggressively cheery piano cover, as usual, or resting, what he would have liked to hear, Patton instead heard a very noisy sneezing fit.

Patton frowned, reversed his steps, and poked his head into the room, and nearly crashed into Roman’s back.

“Kiddo?”

“Oh, Patton! Hello!” Roman said, spinning around, looking a bit more flushed than usual, eyes glassy, and stumbled a step from spinning too much. 

“Roman, are you okay?” Patton asked cautiously.

“I was… looking for a knight,” Roman said, distant. “But I don’t think he’s here.”

Patton frowned, bemused. “Why would you be looking for a knight? You’re sick, you should be resting.”

Roman blinked at him a few times, and Patton narrowed his eyes at him.

“You _have_  been resting, haven’t you?” He said, crossing his arms. “Not overworking and going on quests? You’ve been going to bed and watching Disney movies, _right?”_  

Roman’s cheeks were growing red, and Patton would bet it wasn’t from the fever.

“ _Roman Sanders!”_

“I had _things_ to do, okay!” Roman huffed dramatically. “A little chills never stopped a prince—“

“They’re stopping you now,” Patton said sternly. “You’re going _straight_  to bed, young man, and you are not getting back up until you are back at full health, _no exceptions.”_

Roman grumbled, but followed Patton as the daydream melted into nothingness around them, leaving them in Roman’s cushy bedroom, where Patton helpfully nudged Roman towards his dresser.

“Comfy clothes,” he said firmly.

“All right, all right,” Roman said, and Patton got to work fluffing pillows and making sure there were enough blankets for Roman to curl up under, and there was water on his bedside table. By the time Roman was sliding under the covers, Patton tucking them up to his chin, smoothing his hands over the covers.

“I really don’t think this is necessary,” Roman grumbled, even as Patton leaned forwards to press his lips against Roman’s forehead, considering his temperature.

His skin was hot under Patton’s lips. Warmer than Patton would have liked.

“Fever for sure,” Patton said, drawing back and using his hand to push some of Roan’s hair off of his forehead. “It absolutely is necessary, you’re sick. Working through it is only going to make things worse.”

“I’m not _that_  sick—“

“Sick is sick,” Patton said firmly. “Your health is the main priority here. Self-care.”

Roman sighed dramatically. At this point of sickness, he was grumpy and petulant, but he’d eventually mellow out into something a bit more whiny and attention-seeking. Which was good news for Patton, as it meant Roman would tell him what he would need more, but also bad news for Patton, because Roman was a terror when he finally admitted he was sick. He’d complain about everything, and want desperately to _not be sick,_  and be very vocal about how gross and grouchy he felt.

“Do you want your laptop?” Patton asked patiently.

“No,” Roman grumbled.

“A book?”

“No.”

“Food, water?”

“Noooo,” he groaned, long and drawn out, flopping his head dramatically against his pillow. 

“What is it you want, then?”

Roman grumbled, and turned onto his side, away from Patton, shoulders hunching up. Patton paused, before hesitantly leaning over to scratch his nails gently through the downy hairs on the back of Roman’s neck. He leaned back into it slightly, subtly, and Patton bit back his smile. So that was what he wanted, then. After a minute, he moved so he was rubbing a hand gently up and down Roman’s back, circling his thumb in little circles.

“How’s that?” Patton asked, soft.

“S’fine, I guess,” Roman mumbled, and Patton settled a bit more on the bed, absently tracing patterns until Roman’s breathing evened out with sleep, and then got up to gather more supplies.

Patton was in for the long haul.


	18. pancakes and memes: the sequel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anon asked: I honestly love your story where Roman and Virgil make pancakes at 3 am and sing along to meme music together. It's such a feel-good story and its also really funny. (also i love the mental image of Roman wearing more casual clothes when he thinks he's alone) idk, the entire story thing is great and i still go back and read it randomly to spike my mood up. :D Idk if you do prompts, but if you do, could i maybe request a follow up scene of them maybe hanging out again? its fine, if not. its still an amazing story on its own either way  
> lovelylogans said: thank you so much! and yes, i do, but i do take quite a while on them (everyone is in the drafts, i swear!) as probably evidenced by how late i’m gonna answer this ask, rip. the opening of this fic came from [phanalogical_falsehoods’ comment on ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/comments/160941984), which was really helpful with giving me direction on this one!

Virgil had been getting slowly better and better at cooking pancakes.

He still burned a few, and some looked a bit too pale for comfort; he wasn’t Patton, but most of his pancakes were edible, so Virgil figured that was good enough.

The fact that it was nearing four am hadn’t escaped his attention, which was probably another way he wasn’t like Patton. Actually, it was _definitely_  a way he wasn’t like Patton; Patton and Logan were the most inclined to being early birds; Virgil was much more inclined towards being a night owl, or just generally an insomniac disaster, regardless of Logan’s nagging. 

Virgil, at last, put the last of a pancake on the top of his stack, and nodded, before turning to the table to set it down to grab the butter and syrup, and nearly dropped the newly-completed pancakes in surprise.

“What are you doing up, Princey?”

Roman was lounging on the table, not quite with his usual poise; it mostly just seemed like he’d flopped back onto the table, his legs dangling off the edge. Paired with the hoodie he was wearing, his posture more like Virgil’s own, rather than something befitting royalty.

Roman twirled his wrist half-heartedly, and let his hand drop back down onto the table with a thunk. 

Virgil paused, frowned, and lowered his shoulders.

“Princey.”

He let out a loud gust of a sigh, made a vague hand gesture, and a ukelele appearing in his hand. It wasn’t with the cool, choreographed movement he usually did, or an excited reach; just a movement for the sake of movement.

He set the ukelele against his chest in what Virgil thought was probably bad form.

“[Hey](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gyi3N-y-GM4),” he sang, voice scratchy, as if he hadn’t warmed up, or drunk any water that day. “How you doing, well I’m doing just fine, I lied, I’m dying inside—”

Virgil cringed, and shifted his hold on the pancakes.

“Um,” Virgil said, highkey wishing he was like, a third as emotionally proficient as Patton was, “um—”

He hesitated, before he shuffled forwards, and set the plate of pancakes on Roman’s stomach. Roman turned his head towards him.

“Do you want, like,” Virgil said, and tried his best not to fidget. “What do you want to—? Do you want me to—?”

Roman blinked at the pancakes, and sat up a bit.

“Can we,” he began, and let out a massive sigh. “Can we do the thing we do where we just ignore our problems in favor of memes?”

“Yes,” Virgil said, relieved, because if Roman had wanted to break down and have a monologue about how his life was falling apart, Virgil would’ve had no idea how to handle it, but avoiding his problems by focusing on something funny and familiar was much more Virgil’s department. “Yeah, sure, we can do—do you want jam on your pancakes? I’m gonna make some more, I had extra batter.”

“Okay,” Roman mumbled, at last sliding off the table, keeping a two-handed grip on his plate. Virgil got the jam, and a big glass of water, and silverware, and set them all down in front of him, before turning the stove back on and getting another plate.

And—okay, sure, spoonfuls of jam straight to mouth. That was normal behavior, especially at four am after quoting that vine. Great.

“Could you at least eat the pancakes,” Virgil said. Roman stared at him, before tearing up the pancake, and effectively using the pancake bits as a spoon, staring at Virgil all the while, as if challenging him to say something.

Virgil blinked at him, and instead clicked on a meme playlist on his phone. 

_“[This is. A nice stick](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-TcLxlkc2pA),”_  a modulated voice began over the speaker, and Roman smiled weakly through his mouthful of pancake and jam.

“Lemme _smash,”_  Roman and Virgil both monotoned at the same time, and by the time the video ended, Roman was smiling, but it was a weak one, teeth barely visible, and what was visible was stained [four-fruit](http://www.croftersorganic.com/Product.php?unid=5) red.

So Virgil was going to have to bust out the big guns, then.

“[You asked for it! A whole _video_  dedicated to the ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V_OVxxIvqVw)_[rainbow sponge!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V_OVxxIvqVw)”_  The woman declared, beaming.

“Ever thought about how this is Patton in forty years?” Virgil mused, and Roman snorted inelegantly into his pancakes. Well. Pancake as a spoon, meant to transport heaping piles of jam into Roman’s mouth.

They listened, and the woman added, “Who said you can’t go straight?”

“We’re gay, Dee,” Virgil informed the phone, flipping his pancake, and Roman snorted again.

Virgil listened as the next video started, and he tilted the phone towards Roman, “[This is the video that’s gonna end the water is wet debate, once and for all—”](http://tedisafish.tumblr.com/post/172641882854/menorahs-i-have-been-thinking-about-this-for)

Roman blinked. “I don’t think I’ve seen this one.”

“Oh, then you have to watch this one, the man zooms like he has a PhD in it,” Virgil said, shaking the phone at Roman a bit like how an exhausted mother would shake a jangly toy at a crying baby. “And don’t get jelly on my phone!”

“Fine,” Roman said, taking it, and Virgil turned his attention back to the stove as he listened to the passionate _water is not wet_ debate, which had put Logan into apoplectics a month ago.

Roman, looking devious, proceeded to tap at the phone a few times, and Virgil heard the tell-tale _whoosh_  of a sent message.

“Logan?”

“He’ll be furious,” Roman said happily, handing the phone back to Virgil. The message with the video link was full of kissing emojis and smirking emojis. It was blatantly obvious that Virgil wouldn’t have been the one who sent it.

“Well—”

“He’ll be frantically trying to convince all of us, who think that water is wet, that water is wet,” Roman said, digging his pancake bits into the jam again. “He will then be frustrated that he does not have anyone to debate this with, and will probably resort to attempting to remake that video to prove his point, only for us to reap the harvest of Logan attempting to use zooms on his camera. Tell me you don’t want to see that.”

Virgil paused, and tilted his head, lips pursed in a _you right_  expression.

“Yeah, okay,” Virgil said. “Wanna watch a video Patton would scold us for?”

“Intriguing,” Roman said, cautious. “Scold us for what?”

Virgil hit play.

“ _[FUCK YOU, BALTIMORE!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-rsEs4HWXeY)”_  the salesman boomed, Virgil’s phone at full volume, and Roman choked cackling on his pancake. “IF YOU’RE DUMB ENOUGH TO BUY A NEW CAR THIS WEEKEND, YOU’RE A BIG ENOUGH SCHMUCK TO COME TO BIG BILL HELL’S!”

The swear-laden, r-rated car commercial continued, at full volume, Roman trying and failing not to laugh at it, and eventually had to wipe his tears away, before his gaze landed on where Virgil was standing, absentmindedly picking up a dish towel to clean up some spilled batter from the oven rack.

“I have an idea.”

* * *

This was stupid. This was so, so stupid.

And yet.

“When Logan and Patton aren’t home,” Roman snickered, before he took a breath, and Virgil squinted through his sunglasses as the [familiar notes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CgHW02YF50s) started up. Virgil didn’t even _know_  Roman could play the trombone.

Obligingly, though, Virgil began to slam the oven door in time, and the notes got shaky and wheezy because Roman would start laughing, and then Virgil would start laughing, and they’d have to start all over again, until—

“ _What_  are you two doing?!” Logan demanded, sleepy eyed and scowling, rubbing his eyes, before seeing the way they were standing. Sunglasses on, Virgil in fitting pajamas, Roman about to start blasting the trombone in his face.

Logan paused, rubbed his eyes again, and said instead, “I’m going to believe that this is a lucid dream, and I am going back to bed.”

_Wah-wah-wahhhhhh,_  Roman blasted after him, and Virgil had to tighten his hold on the oven door to keep from falling over in laughter.


	19. the sides adopt a pet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thepoolofthedead asked: First of all congrats on the followers! Second could we get a fic of the sides at a shelter arguing over what animal to get?  
> lovelylogans said: thank you so much! and yes, you certainly can! a bit of a tangent here: i actually volunteered quite a bit at an animal shelter a while back, and, ah, you’ll see a bit of my personal bias come through on this one. just a little. just a l ittle

The house was divided, alliances were made, and articles were printed and shouted about and waved into faces.

Clearly, it wasn’t serious; Patton had sat everyone down and made them all agree that they would be happy to get a dog, cat, or bunny, regardless of the fact that the house had split into teams.

Logan and Roman were on Team Dog; Virgil and Patton were on Team Cat, regardless of Patton’s allergies.

“Why do you want a cat when you’re allergic,” Logan had demanded exasperatedly on more than one occasion, and Patton shrugged, beamed, and declared, “I like cats!”

Virgil’s primary method of warfare was spamming their groupchat with adorable kitten gifs; Patton just tended to ramble on and on about how soft and fluffy and cute and fuzzy and _et cetera et cetera_ cats were. Logan was the main article printer, and Roman tended to passively leave on the TV with clips of Lassie and Air Bud looping throughout the day.

But the day arrived, and though the shelter attendant seemed surprised when they said they were trying to adopt one or the other and still hadn’t decided, nodded professionally.

“Flip a coin to see which we visit first,” Logan said, not bothering to look over at the cages where bunnies were flopping all over the place. 

Virgil and Roman faced off, and with a loud “HA!” it was clear to see who had won.

“Dogs first,” Logan and Patton chorused, Logan perhaps a bit more smugly.

“All right, follow me,” the volunteer said, and gestured to a massive container of hand sanitizer. “If you’d just sanitize your hands, we’ll start off looking at the puppies...”

All four of them did as the volunteer said, and followed the woman to the back of the room, hearing barks and howls and the soft cooing and cajoling of other volunteers, sidestepping eager dogs on leashes heading out for their walks of the day.

“Okay, here we are!” The volunteer said, gesturing to the squeaky puppies, all flopping over themselves to press their noses against the gaps in the glass.

“ _Hello,”_  Patton whispered, voice soft, staring at all of them, and the volunteer began explaining their breeds, pointing to each separated litter and talking about their ages. Roman and Logan peeked over Patton’s shoulders as Virgil crouched down, looking at the puppies in the lower kennel, and as the volunteer stepped and the other three followed, Virgil stayed put.

“Virgil?” Patton prompted, glancing at where Virgil was smiling, a soft little smile, fingers pressed gently against the gap in the glass.

“I... I think he likes me?” Virgil said, hesitant, and looked to the volunteer, who smiled.

“Poor little guy,” she said, crouching down as Patton doubled back, crouching beside him.

“Why poor little guy?” Patton asked, hushed, but then the puppy stood up, hopping on his three legs.

“Oh, my goodness,” Patton murmured, “oh, sweet little thing—”

“We’ve been calling this little guy Duke, but he’s so young, he doesn’t really realize it’s his name, and of course whoever adopts him is free to change it,” the volunteer said, as Logan and Roman doubled back.

Logan, pointedly nudging Roman in the ribs and nodding towards Virgil’s face, murmured, “I think he’s about to be swayed to our side.”

The woman was wiggling her fingers in front of the glass, smiling that same little odd smile. “Duke and his sister, we think, were rescued from a dog fighting ring. We don’t know how he lost his leg, but it’s probably because—well, because of the fighting ring. His leg had an infection, and his sister had pretty bad heartworm when we found them, and, well...”

Patton’s lower lip was trembling. “She died?” He whispered.

“We did as much as we could,” the volunteer said, soft. “He’s a pretty nervous little guy, he hasn’t warmed up to someone as much as he has to you—I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

“Virgil,” Virgil said, not taking his eyes off the dog. “Can we... can I pet him?”

Roman, unsubtly, punched Logan in the shoulder. “ _We’re getting a dog, we’re getting a dog, we’re getting a dog—”_

“Of course,” she said, smiling. “Lemme just get him out of here, and—just down this aisle, there’s a little play room, if you four could wait in there...?”

Virgil, hesitantly, drew his hand away from the glass, and allowed Logan to pull him to his feet.

“Who’d do that to a cute little dog like that?” Patton asked, upset, and Roman wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

“I know, buddy,” he said, leading him to the playroom. “And since he’s a pitbull—”

“Wait,” Virgil said, “wait, what do you mean, _since he’s a pitbull?_ ”

Logan stepped in, and said, opening the door to the playroom, “Though each dog breed has their advantages and disadvantages, of course, as pitbulls and other bull breeds have been unfairly targeted.” 

“Targeted how?” Patton asked.

“There’s breed-specific legislation that ban or restrict dogs by breed, typically pit bulls,” Logan said. “None here, thankfully. But other dogs—rottweilers, dobermans, chows—they get affected, too.”

“Yeah, but why?” Virgil asked, looking to Logan, who straightened his tie and continued.

“A lot of bulls are bred to be fighting dogs, historically, so some don’t do well around other dogs. Most breeds get lumped into the problem because of how they _look,_  not how they _act._  Bulls are very fond of people, usually, unless they feel threatened or they were poorly socialized. They’re usually pretty well-tempered, but because they’re bred to fight—”

“Bulls get a bad rep,” Roman finished. “They’re a bit tough to train, but they’re good dogs, loving and loyal. They need a lot of exercise, and we just need to train him well. That’s all.”

They all settled on the floor, glancing towards the door. It only took a couple minutes before the volunteer was walking in, puppy in her arms, who started squirming excitedly as soon as he laid eyes on Virgil. She laughed, and set him down as the puppy ran-hopped straight for Virgil, eagerly licking at Virgil’s face. 

“ _This is so cute I’m going to die,”_  Patton whispered, staring, as Virgil, laughing, tried to tilt his head so the puppy wasn’t licking his mouth. His words seemed to draw attention, and the puppy skittered to Patton, shoving his nose into Patton’s hand before starting to lick at his face, and Patton fell onto his back, giggling, petting the puppy’s sides.

Logan, smiling just slightly, turned to the volunteer. “I think I should probably request we put in the paperwork for him. Am I agreed?” He asked, turning to the other three, who were all busy crooning as the puppy hopped and spun and bounced amongst their laps.

The volunteer laughed, and clapped Logan on the shoulder. “I’ll bring you the info.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [this is their thicc boi](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/83/65/3f/83653f9fa3617296b885878b73e7de40--tripod-jax.jpg) , fully grown, and i’d be so super open to writing a sequel to this i might just do it of my own free will


	20. the sides adopt a pet part two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: Could you do "I'm sorry I got way too into playing house" for the weird sentences prompts?  
> lovelylogans said: sure thing! i am also shoehorning this in as a sequel to [this previous prompt fic](https://lovelylogans.tumblr.com/post/174068111382/i-lost-the-ask-for-this-but-i-have-the-prompt) of mine in which the sides adopt a [tripod pitbull puppy,](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/83/65/3f/83653f9fa3617296b885878b73e7de40--tripod-jax.jpg) so, like, Dog Content™

The puppy’s name, once they came up with it, was just too perfect, really.

“Croft,” Roman cooed, and Croft lifted his head from where he’d been napping on Virgil’s lap. “Crofty, honey, come to papa, I’ve got a new toy!”

Croft snuffled a little, settling his big, meaty head back on Virgil’s nap and staring at Roman with doleful eyes.

Roman sighed at him. “You’re the laziest puppy I’ve ever met,” he said, lowering the toy he’d been squeaking.

“Did you not hear him doing laps in the hallway at three in the morning?” Logan asked, from where he was absentmindedly running his hand up and down Croft’s back. “The dog is nocturnal.”

“Wonder where he gets that from,” Patton said, and shot a Look to all three of his roommates, as if to truly underline how horrible they were at following Logan’s advice, even Logan himself.

Logan’s original name idea was Crofter’s Premium Spread Logan’s Berry Organic Jam, potentially shortened to CPSLBOJ, which was understandably shot down by everyone in the room. Roman’s next proposal was Croft _er’s,_  to which Virgil said they weren’t naming the dog after a fucking jam brand, and Patton proposed the mediation of _Croft:_  so they could say he’d been named after the jam brand _or_  after Lara Croft from the Tomb Raider franchise.

So Croft had immediately been given a _Croft_  collar tag with all of their phone numbers on it, a custom jam jar toy Roman had commissioned from someone on Etsy that Croft rarely touched, and a fluffy Lara Croft toy that was tucked up by his dog bed that he also rarely touched.

Croft was currently pretty small, since he was still a puppy; according to the vet, he’d probably top out around 80 or 90 pounds. But right now he just had really big ears, a very long tail, and three massive paws that he tripped over pretty often. 

Virgil scratched absently behind Croft’s ears, and Croft let out a sort of grumbly happy noise; he was a talkative kind of dog, with a lot of sighs and grumbling and soft little barks they all unanimously called _boofs._

He also had the tendency to _arororowowow!_  at them whenever they all left him for a period of time, leaping up on them, eager to be pet, which Logan was trying to train him out of, because whenever he leapt up he didn’t exactly have two stable paws to land on when he came back down.

It wasn’t like they _all_  left him all at once very often; really mostly whenever they went out to dinner. Their schedules were different enough that most of the time one of them was home to take Croft out when he needed it and work on basic training with Croft. He was a smart little guy, and very food-and-affection motivated, so Croft had down the basic _sit, shake, lay down_ thing _;_ they were still working on _roll over_  and _heel._  And _stay;_ he’d get so excited to follow after wherever they were walking off to, he’d gambol right after them, tail wagging excitedly.

Croft had been living with them for less than a month, but he’d managed to capture all of their hearts basically immediately. 

Roman had, in fact, immediately recreated Rosa’s _I’ve only had Arlo for a day and a half but if anything happened to him I would kill everyone in the room and then myself_  from Brooklyn 99, with all of them. All four were on their various social medias to announce that they’d gotten a dog, and also printed out and framed in the living room.

It was odd, to look at the photo and Croft now; he’d already grown so much in the month they’d had him.

Croft had his problems too; potty-training was an ongoing battle. He couldn’t handle other dogs, and either got aggressive or whimpering and frightened whenever he saw them, so they always walked him early in the morning, when there wouldn’t be other dogs around. He was a menace to most small rodentia and birds; he’d already killed three robins, a mouse, and had grievously injured a possum. 

But he was such a cuddly, eager boy—any difficulties were well worth it.

“Fatherhood has _changed_  me,” Roman had declared once, which—well. Kinda, yeah.

Once they started parting ways, Croft picked his head up from Virgil’s lap, following after them; he slept in their beds, because they were all softies. Croft tended to alternate between all of them, moving from room to room throughout the night. They’d all learned to either sleep through a dog hopping on their bed, or to sleepily roll over, give him a clumsy pat, and go right back to sleep.

Croft was also a bed hog, so it was a bit of a struggle to actually get _in_  bed once he was there; a lot of the time, they had to lift him, set him aside, and quickly lay down under the covers before Croft could decide he wanted to take over their pillows or the center of the bed.

Once Logan came back to his room, ready to curl up in bed, he was unsurprised to see Croft already sprawled wide across the bed.

“Croft, move, you know the drill,” Logan said, shoving him to the other side of the bed and promptly sliding under the covers, turning off the lamp, sending them into darkness; there was the familiar press of Croft’s cold nose as he situated himself, pressing as close as he could get to Logan.

Logan wrapped an arm around him, sleepy, and pressed his nose against Croft’s back, inhaling his doggish scent. He loved this dog, to a degree he’d never actually admit out loud.

“Good boy,” Logan whispered, and Croft let out a sleepy little sigh.

* * *

Roman woke up to a tongue on his face.

Roman squinted, and laughed a little, narrowly dodging a doggy kiss straight into the mouth, nudging Croft’s head aside.

“M’up, m’up,” Roman said, and patted him on the back. “Let’s hope you didn’t leave any surprises around the apartment, how about a bit of a w— _stroll,_  huh?”

Croft had quickly learned what the _w_  word meant, so they either spelled it out or used some other word, lest Croft start bouncing around eagerly.

No surprises, which was good, and Roman tugged on some clothes, hunting around for a plastic baggie and Croft’s leash, at which point, Croft started _bouncing_  eagerly, running between Roman and the door, jumping and wagging his tail so fast his whole butt wiggled.

“I know, I know!” Roman said with a laugh. “Okay, now— _sit.”_

Croft sat. Well, mostly; he sat in such a way that his butt didn’t quite touch the ground.

“Let’s go!” Roman said, opening the front door, and Croft charged forth, yanking Roman forward with his odd-hopping gait, throwing himself into the walk with all his force. 

Roman liked taking Croft on these early morning walks; it was some exercise, which was nice, and… well.

He’d never tell his roommates this, but Croft was a really good listener.

He knew that Croft didn’t actually _understand_  him, but he was good at _seeming_  like he did; there were the huffs, and pants, and looks that he did often. It was just kind of nice to… talk, sometimes.

“It’s probably going to be a bit of a long day,” Roman told Croft, as Croft sniffed interestedly at a tree. “I’m not going to be here a lot. Rehearsals are really picking up pace.”

Croft made a snuffling noise.

“Yeah, I know, I haven’t been here as much,” Roman said, “but you’ve got the other three, too, ya know? I’ll try and keep morning walks free and _extra_  long, how about that?”

Croft tilted his head a little, and trotted-hopped onwards. Good enough for Roman.

The walk in the brisk fall weather continued like that; Roman talking to Croft about his schedule, his worries, and each time, Croft would make some kind of noise, or wag his tail. 

It was just nice, Roman guessed, to talk to someone who’d keep all your secrets, and not judge you for silly things like _I’m worried that I’m going to mess up onstage and everyone’s going to hate me for it._ Croft would just wag his tail and lick him and flop down on the couch with him once they’d gotten through with the walk, demanding all the pets that Roman could give him.

* * *

Listen, Virgil had been team cat, all the way. He was as surprised as anyone to find out how much he liked having a dog.

Virgil cracked his eyes open when the door creaked open, irrationally afraid (when wasn’t he irrationally afraid, though?) that Patton had gotten back early and noticed Virgil wasn’t on campus today. Virgil frowned, because no one was there.

The sudden displacement of his mattress spoke of a different story, and Virgil let a hand flop in Croft’s direction.

“Hey, bud,” he said, voice scratchy. “I’m not really… at my best today, so if you wanna play tug or something—”

Croft made the grumbling-sighing noise at him, and instead laid his big head on Virgil’s chest, huffing a breath through his nose.

“Oh,” Virgil said, at last, and paused, hand hovering, before he at last let it come down on Croft’s head. “Cuddle time, huh? That’s what you want?”

Sometimes, it seemed like Croft’s favorite times of day were in the early morning, when he cuddled up against any of them and they both snoozed until they actually had to wake up. Virgil had never before met a (would be) 90 pound dog who was so convinced he was a lapdog.

“Mkay,” Virgil murmured, and they adjusted—Croft ended up, essentially, on his side, mostly laying on top of Virgil, head tucked in the space between Virgil’s head and neck.

Virgil, hesitantly, wrapped his arms around Croft’s body—to make sure he stayed in place and didn’t fall off, and stuff.

The warmth and the weight of him was doing something to make Virgil’s eyelids feel heavier, though. Croft would occasionally rumble in his ear, in his sleep; Virgil envied the swiftness with which he could fall asleep.

“You’re a good boy,” Virgil managed to say, and started petting Croft; his fur was kind of bristly, and it provided an interesting texture under his hands. Something else to focus on.

“Such a good boy,” Virgil murmured, hand continuing to make the lazy path up and down Croft’s back.

So dogs weren’t that bad, after all.

* * *

“Crofty Crofty Croft!” Patton sing-songed, bent forward, hands on his knees. “Who’s a good boy? _Whosagoodboy?!”_

Croft was eagerly wagging his tail. _Who is the good boy?!_

 _“Is it you?!”_  Patton crooned, and giggled as Croft hopped a little. “Is it you?! I think it is! You’re such a good boy, Croft!”

He scooped up Croft in his arms (he was genuinely considering taking up weightlifting so he’d be able to keep picking him up once he was fully grown) and planted a kiss on his little forehead, Croft wiggling in his arms. 

Patton was alone for the evening, but that was okay, because he’d thought of some things to try with Croft! Things they’d never done with him before!

“We’re gonna do an experiment, baby!” Patton crooned, and at last set Croft down. “Okay, so, here we go! I got some new things to try!”

There were a lot of new toys. Unsurprisingly, Croft loved all the ones that would transfer a treat to himself; Patton could relate to wanting only food and love. Like, a _lot._

To the point he immediately snapchatted an image of Croft chasing clumsily after a treat ball with that exact caption to his roommates.

Okay, he might have snapchatted a _lot_  of pictures of Croft. His camera roll was now almost exclusively pictures of Croft or his friends, but really mostly Croft. 

Patton, at last, dug out the piece de resistance, as Roman would say, and crooned at Croft to come—and immediately realized some flaws with this plan.

But he was gonna make it work!

* * *

“Patton, we’re home,” Virgil called, and frowned.

Croft hadn’t come running as soon as they came through the door. That was… different.

Logan and Roman were exchanging looks of a similar degree, Logan already half-crouched, as if just out of habit. He cleared his throat and stood up, straightening his tie.

“Kitchen!” Patton called, and all three progressed forwards, before coming to a stop.

Patton, blinking, turned from where he’d been stirring a pot on the stove, holding Croft (in a onesie) on his hip, as if Croft was a baby.

“Um,” Virgil said at last. “Patton.”

Patton blinked at him, and looked at Croft, and then back to them, before he laughed a little nervously, setting Croft back on the ground so Croft could hop forth and demand love.

“ **I’m sorry** ,” he said. “ **I got way into playing house**.”

“We baby this dog too much,” Logan said ruefully, before immediately helping Croft unearth a slightly trapped treat from the treat ball and giving it to him. 

“He _deserves_ it,” Roman declared, and nobody could quite find it in themselves to disagree.


End file.
